Addictions Intertwined
by Eupa
Summary: Holmes/Watson. Shwatsonlock! Watson finally snaps on the subject of cocaine, admits a secret he's been hiding for far too long, and Lestrade is rather slow on the uptake. Appearances from Mycroft and Lestrade! Fluff. Drug references. Slash. Clear? Good.
1. Anger and Shock

**A/N: I hate disclaimers. Of course I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Hence, this is fanfiction! As Holmes would say, it is ELEMENTARY! **

**Ode to my Beta: Thank you to my Beta, Chique52! **

**Her comma knowledge saves my life on a daily basis, **

**She fixes all my random spaces, **

**I'm not kidding. Really,**

**This fic was very very nearly**

**A bit of a fail, deserving hate mail. **

**Not for sale, undeserving of bail.**

**Her attention to detail has mended**

**This, which will not been blended**

**With the work of five hundred beers.**

**The woman's a miracle worker! Three cheers!**

**Watson's POV**

The life of a doctor is a harsh one.

To constantly battle with the forces of nature, of death itself, to save your fellow man from its sticky clutches.

Needless to say, I do not enjoy losing my patients.

I am aware I cannot win every battle...however much I might wish to. From time to time, my patients do not have it in them to struggle with death. I am no miracle worker; I cannot cure someone who does not want to be cured.

They have to want it.

They have to fight for it.

Over my many years as a doctor and a surgeon, both in Afghanistan and back in England, I have learnt to gauge the amount of willpower in the eyes of the injured. I have known a soldier recover from an amputation which took place during a battle, and I have known a similar soldier struck down by influenza and dead within three days, in his own home.

I have seen injuries where I believed nothing I could do would save the patient, yet they survived. I have learnt to believe in miracles.

No doubt Holmes would accuse me of doubting my own abilities. Or foolishly following superstition.

But I prefer to believe in the miracles of iron will and steely determination. My abilities would be useless if my patient had neither the will nor the determination to live.

Whenever I lose one of my patients, I cannot escape the feeling of failure and sadness, despite Holmes' constant assurances that it wasn't my fault. He often says I wear my heart on my sleeve, and perhaps that is true, at least to him. Holmes can read most souls like a book.

Yet he still remains a mystery to me. I, who perhaps could say without contradiction that I know him better than any other, am still very much in the dark when it comes to the world's greatest private detective.

As a result of knowing him more than most, I know of his vices...Cocaine abuse being prominent amongst them.

The idea of that drug disgusts me.

The thought of Holmes injecting it willingly into his veins makes me almost physically sick. Yet, I do not stop him. I try to persuade him, but I never stop him. He doesn't listen to me, and sometimes I ponder destroying his supply of the drug, stopping the habit that would destroy his great mind. But I never do it. It is purely an idle thought. Or, it was.

Because at this moment, that is the one thing I would like to do more than anything.

To just snatch that blasted syringe out of his hand and fling it out of a window or against the wall, grinding the shards into the carpet...I can almost picture the shock on his face. His normally peaceable Boswell shattering glass.

To protect him.

Only to protect him.

To stop that needle slicing through pale skin, to prevent it driving into waiting veins, to vanquish the drug before it latches it's slimy tendrils around my friend's mind.

The fact that he injects the seven percent solution _willingly_ makes it all so much worse.

Why can't he see what it could do to him?

Why won't he listen to me?

Have the demons got such a hold over him that he cannot even hear reason? Can no longer hear the cold clear logic, facts and proof that he so praises above the softer emotions?

Time seems to stand still in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

"Watson."

Holmes breaks the silence, neither turning towards me nor moving the syringe away from where it is poised above the vein on his inner arm. His right arm today.

I do not reply. Disgust rises in my throat like bile, and though I swallow, the sickened taste still fills my mouth.

"I presume your silence means you lost your patient?"

Again, I do not speak.

Of course I lost my patient. That's what sparked all of this. That boy is why the taste of disgust is mingling with that of rage on my tongue.

"Yes."

Holmes sighs, in a rare moment of almost-emotion. "I am sorry Watson."

"No you're not." My voice is cold.

Holmes turns in his chair, frowning slightly. The syringe is raised away from his arm now, dangling in one cupped palm. It would be so simple to just knock it away...

"What do you mean Watson?"

I almost laugh, but my rage builds. "That boy died. I couldn't save him. None of us could. Five doctors crowded round his bed, but we could do nothing! Nothing!" I step nearer to Holmes, until I am within an arm's reach of that blasted syringe. "There was too much cocaine in him, and we couldn't remove it in time. He died. All because the fool thought he had to take drugs, even though he knew the risks! And then I see you." My eyes felt black with fury, disgust and pain evident in my voice. "I see you about to pump a seven percent solution into your arm! About to pollute your mind and damage your health!"

I grab his wrist, and his eyes are wide with surprise, but a flicker of understanding shines in their slate-grey depths. At any other time, I would have delighted in surprising the great detective, but at this moment I merely continue to shout at him.

Anger and frustration at his disregard for my advice over the years pours out of my mouth, poison directed at the drug in his hand.

"What if it had been you I was summoned to save tonight?!" I feel a familiar prickling of angry tears at the back of my eyes. "What if had been you I couldn't save?! What if you weren't as immortal as you seem to believe?"

"What ifs are nothing to base an assumption on!" I see his face colour slightly, and suspect I have touched a nerve. But I no longer care.

"It's not an assumption! It's the truth!"I shout back. "You know what this drug does to people! For someone who is supposed to have some modicum of intelligence, you still stupidly inject yourself with poisonous drugs! You have no respect for your own body!"

"What level of respect I have for my own body is my business is it not, Watson?" Holmes' voice is icy, and my anger blazes brighter. "It is none of your concern!"

I feel a brief pain as his words cut into me like knives. Not my concern.

In a fit of anger, I grab the syringe from his limp fingers, my cane falling to the floor from my other hand and I shove him in the chest.

Taken completely by surprise, he falls backwards, toppling onto the floor, his seat spread-eagled on the floor at his back.

His eyes are wide, but they manage to widen further as he sees my hand swing past my face, fingers releasing the small glass syringe of their own accord. I watch the glass connect with the wall and shatter into a million pieces.

Holmes remains half-lying on the floor as I grab every container of cocaine I can find, shoving them into my coat pockets.

I turn to go, and he almost winces at the anger that must show clearly on my face.

"You have no right-" He begins to speak, outrage breaking through his surprise.

My voice returns to a normal level, echoing indignation in every syllable. "Maybe not. But if you think that it's only you who would suffer if you killed yourself with this accursed habit then you are a selfish imbecile! "

His face clouds with confusion, and he almost looks like a child for a moment; a boy amazed by the disobedience of his favourite pet.

I do not permit myself a backward glance.

I stormed down the staircase and exited the building, and as I turned my back on the door to 221B Baker Street, I felt a piercing gaze fix on me. I would not give him the satisfaction of meeting that gaze. It was dark and deserted at such an early hour, so I resolved to walk rather than hailing a cab.

Deliberately, I began to walk briskly away, keeping my back to the window where I was sure Holmes stood.

It was five in the morning when I reached the river, and the bridge that stretched across its width. The area had long since resigned itself to sleep, and I reached the edge of the bridge, and carefully poured the drug into one small bottle, which I wrapped up in my coat filled with rocks and lobbed into the dark waters of the Thames. It was an old coat, and I had two synonymous ones at Baker Street, so I had few qualms about throwing it away, despite the chilly temperatures. It seemed almost like a martyr, a sacrifice that had to be made.

The remaining bottles were thrown onto the floor with some force, and those which did not smash were shattered by the rock I dropped on them all.

Feeling much more calm, though anger and disgust were still vivid in my memory, I began to walk slowly back through London. This brief relief lasted only for a few moments before it gave way to raw hurt.

I felt like a child, sitting by the river, aimlessly tossing pebbles and trying to ignore the tears that threatened to roll down my cheeks; tears caused by the combined guilt of losing a patient intertwined with the possibility of losing a dear friend.

Only once the sun rose, striking a golden chord across the murky waters, did I also rise to my feet, briefly wiping the residue left by my frustrated tears.

No doubt I was quite a sight on my way back through London, but by God's mercy, I met no one I knew. As if my tired eyes were not enough, bloodshot from a lack of sleep and red-rimmed, my bedraggled appearance from pacing the streets of London restlessly did little to enhance my image.

But by this point I was too tired and worried to care.

**A/N:ii) Please R&R.**


	2. Hugs and Whispers

**A/N: Thanks to anyone who's reviewed! And to my beta, Chique52!**

**Holmes' POV**

"What level of respect I have for my own body is my business is it not, Watson?" My voice was ice. I have never appreciated being told what to do. Not as a child, and certainly not now. "It is none of your concern!"

However, I will admit: that last comment was unnecessary. Watson was only trying to help me, I suppose. It was just that I didn't want his help. I am accustomed to being independent. My brother and I are perfectly able to cope on our own. He even seems to thrive in solitude. I was well aware I was beginning to rely on Watson almost more than on myself, but I was still an independent being. I did not appreciate being told what to do.

I realise I was probably addicted. Addicted to the thrills the cocaine granted me. Addicted to the mental stimulus it offered in times of stagnation. The sense of danger may also have been a contributing factor. As I lost faith in criminal originality, the cocaine was a stimulant, to keep me awake. To keep my mind alive.

What I did not realise, or did not fully appreciate, was that during these times of deplorable stagnation, Watson was also there. By my side. At all times.

My greatest friend. My Boswell. Watson was always there, someone to rely on, someone to trust. His complete faith never fails to amaze me, although I rarely let him see it. He has often saved my life, and never permits me to forget my revolver. Even after the Reichenbach Falls, he was still happy to see me. Still able to forgive me for keeping him in the dark, for making him believe I was dead for three long years.

I was totally unjustified to have said such a thing to him.

The pain I glimpsed clearly in his eyes splintered through my anger, but before I had time to even contemplate what I had said, I found myself on the floor, my syringe ripped from my hand and falling to the floor in shards.

Shock did not do justice to my utter astonishment.

I am accustomed to knowing those around me like a book, being able to predict their moves before they even contemplate them, preparing a defence for every idea they could ever devise.

But I had not anticipated that.

Reflexively, I winced as he turned back towards me, anger seeming to radiate from him. I cannot remember ever having seen John Watson like that before. I'd never seen him so irate.

And I'd never had that fury directed at me.

As he stashed my cocaine in his coat, I could only babble, "You have no right-"

Outrage and shock crept into my voice, but I was too startled to prevent them from doing so. Emotions have a tendency to express themselves when one is at one's weakest. It is one of many reasons why I hold them in very little esteem. An enemy who attacks when one is weak is not worthy of an ounce of my esteem.

His just indignation catches me off-guard, "Maybe not. But if you think that's it's only you who would suffer if you killed yourself with this accursed habit you are a selfish imbecile!"

I thought I detected a trace of hurt behind the words, smothered by the rage in Watson's voice. I could not form any response. I could only lie on the floor.

I pride myself on my mind and intellect, not to mention deduction and observation, but all thought appeared to have deserted me, leaving me weak and vulnerable. Like a child caught in a storm. And Watson walked away, without even a backwards glance.

I could not believe how much that hurt.

That is another reason why I despise the softer emotions. They have an innate ability to wound me beyond reason, out of all proportion!

As I heard the door slam, I picked myself up from the floor, hurrying to the window, surveying the familiar darkness of Baker Street, picking out the familiar figure in the brown coat with ease. It made him rather conspicuous.

My gaze fixed on him, daring him to turn around and face me. It was a mark of how livid he was that he did not even turn his head towards my window as he stormed away into the clouds of mist.

These are the facts, as I perceived them.

Now I have my clay.

Time for the great detective to make bricks.

I ignore the chair where it haphazardly lounges on the floor and walk briskly to the fireplace, retrieving my favourite pipe from the small selection that dwells on the mantelpiece.

Carefully, I strike a match, holding it to the tobacco, waiting for it to catch alight. The sweet smoke envelops me and I throw the match into the fire with a flick of my fingers.

I had to approach this as a case, emotionally detached, looking purely at the facts. I had to eliminate the possibilities until I whittled it down to the one simple solution.

Clearly, Watson had been concerned about my habits for a while. I knew this already. He had regularly attempted to dissuade me, but I had not paid him any heed. He was clearly flustered upon arrival and in some distress, as is understandable, having just lost a patient. As there were five doctors present, it is probable that it was quite stressful for him, trying to save the boy. And the unfortunate coinciding of his return and my cocaine injection had somehow triggered all these frustrations. This had resulted in the violent outburst which had been aimed in my direction.

Based on Watson's past reluctance to leave, and taking into account his calm and forgiving temperament, I was sure that he would return by midday. I glanced at a clock. It was now four in the morning.

However, another problem was biting at me. The question of why my emotions were quite so affected by this outburst.

It was a surprise, so the emotions could possibly have been amplified as a result of shock...but not to such an extent. Was it just that I was afraid to lose a dear friend?

My only friend?

Soon after reaching a seemingly impossible solution, I became aware of the fact that my pipe had gone out. Almost amused, I replaced it on the stand and walked towards the window, with the intent of searching for my Boswell amongst the early morning crowds.

En route however, I caught sight of a glint behind the fallen chair. Intrigued, I bent down to investigate.

A small glass vial of cocaine was the fruit of this brief search, apparently overlooked by Watson.

However, I was surprised to find that I did not feel any better for this discovery. In fact, I felt slightly nauseous. Looking at the vial, instead of my customary feeling of relief from the monotony of sedentary life and escape to stimulation for my impatient mind, I felt disgust pool into my stomach.

One glance at this bottle brought me back to reality.

Watson had been correct in his accusations. I was ruining my mind, my body, and my friendship with my Boswell for the sake of a syringe and a seven percent solution of a dangerous substance. The feeling of disgust swelled, guilt also floating to the surface of my mind.

With an unintentional sigh which added an unnecessary amount of drama to the moment, I held the small bottle upside down over the sink. I watched in silence as the liquid drained down into the sewers.

A feeling of exhaustion washed over me for an instant. I, who prided myself on seeing the world without emotional bias, instead was blinkered by a meagre drug. A chemical addiction. Eyes partially closed due to my fatigue, I raised my head from its position staring intently into the sink, and caught sight of a familiar face in the mirror.

"Watson!"

I spun round to face him, noting that his coat was missing. The blackened river mud on the soles and edges of his shoes betrayed Watson's destination, whilst his eyes spoke volumes of his fatigue and his sadness. It did not require a private detective to ascertain that Watson had been crying, though the signs were faint enough to be ignored by most.

His eyes narrowed at the sight of the glass in my hand, but then a slight frown line appeared between his eyes. No doubt he had noticed the lack of cocaine.

"...Did you..." Watson watched me carefully.

I nodded. "It is gone."

Watson could only gawp. It must have been quite a shock to him that I took his advice, after all these years of badgering me to change my habits. Surprising Watson amuses me, and indeed, I take pains to do so as often as possible. There is something infinitely humorous about the doctor when he is surprised.

As any form of response seemed unlikely at that moment, I took advantage of the momentary lapse in dialogue to drop the empty tube into the bin, and brushed past Watson to seat myself in my customary chair by the fire.

Watson recovered enough to follow me blindly. Fingers steepled, I sat gazing intently into the flickering flames, safer in the knowledge that Watson had returned to his normal place. Just his presence in the chair opposite my own boosted my spirits. It always did.

Just knowing he was there was enough to bring me back from the depth of depression. Just knowing that I could trust him, rely on him, and that despite my often careless words, he somehow managed to bear my company.

"You have a great gift of silence Watson." I almost smiled. "I have said it before and doubtless shall repeat it again, it makes you truly invaluable as a companion."

I was rewarded with a brief smile, before his face elapsed into a more serious expression once more.

"Holmes...I-"

I cut him off before he can get any further. Getting an apology from me is usually akin to attaining blood from a stone, but personal pride is not worth damaging my friendship with Watson for. He knows that.

"I am sorry Watson." I made an effort to add sincerity to my usually bland and emotionless tone. I continue to stare into the fire, as a result of a sudden irrational fear to look him in the eyes. "I have indeed been as selfish as you described. I did not consider any other than myself, and I should have done so. I should have considered you, my Boswell." I paused. "I can promise you it shall not happen again..." I let the sentence hang.

"You will give it up?" Watson's tone betrayed his astonishment.

Grinning, and unable to resist the amusing expression doubtless already showing in Watson's face, I turned to face him. "With your help, good doctor. But I'd like to think I have a good chance."

Watson blinked several times, clearly amazed. He had doubtless interpreted my unthinking words as a refusal to even contemplate giving up my addiction.

"I also owe you an apology for the way I spoke to you." I intertwined my fingers and rested them on my knee. "You have been a true friend for many years, and your anger was entirely justified. The way I spoke to you was inexcusable." I examined my hands intently, diverting my gaze from his face. "I am truly sorry John."

To my surprise, the reaction to my apology was a burst of laughter. I glanced up sharply, and watched Watson laugh, his eyes shining with mirth.

Adopting an appropriately indignant manner, I am ashamed to say I almost pouted. "What exactly is amusing, Watson?"

Watson's grin did not fade. "I am merely amazed, Holmes. It is rare enough to coerce one apology from you, unheard of for two apologies at once!" His eyes twinkled, as they always do when he is amused.

I smile slightly, casting aside my feigned indignation. "So we are friends again, my Boswell?"

"Of course." He replies, face lit up in a true smile.

I have often noted that Watson has an unusual ability to smile for lengthy periods of time, with a smile that extends to his entire face, particularly his eyes. Most people, I have observed, smile almost exclusively with their mouths, and their smiles rarely reach their eyes. With Watson this observation is transposed. His smiles almost seem to stem from his eyes, and I should not be surprised to find he could express a smile without moving his lips. It demonstrates how unique a person my Boswell is, and how he masters arts I can never hope to understand. The art of smiling, of gracious pleasantries, of gentle words and encouragement to those most in need of it, and above all, his heart. His pure, generous heart that he can wear proudly on his sleeve.

A stark contrast to my egotistical eccentricity, my damning of all emotions, particularly those softer emotions which can melt a man to within an ounce of his determination at a whim, and my withdrawn personality. I take time to trust, whilst he would offer his trust and assistance to almost any he sees.

I suddenly notice he is staring at me intently, no doubt attempting to fathom what matter my mind dwells on. I laugh, a bark of violent amusement. "I am glad."

I stand, extending my arms as I did after revealing my survival after the inevitable struggle with Moriarty. I grin, but his own shining smile far surpasses my own.

Watson stands and takes a step nearer, accepting the hug. "As am I." He wraps his arms around my back, as I hold him in my arms also.

At that moment, even the slightest niggling doubt or hint of cocaine was blown from my mind. I know now, as I knew then, that when it comes to a choice between one addiction and another, my Boswell shall always triumph.

Watson lets his head drop onto my shoulder, his fatigue overwhelming him for a moment. I hear a brief whisper wrapped up and contained in a sigh, so muffled and minimal that it is almost inaudible.

But I hear it.

I notice him tense as he realises he has murmured the words aloud. I do not move, aware that at this moment Watson could be easily spooked, like a deer.

I hold him close, my arms locked in place. Out of the corner of my eye, I observe a slight growth of pink flush across his cheek.

My mind, whilst coolly making observations, is whirling. Spinning. Racing.

Because for a moment, just a moment, I thought that he'd said...

"_I love you."_

**A/N: Please R&R!!!! I feel Holmes is a bit OOC but next chapter I shall resume my Watson POV, so all should be well. *grin*.**


	3. Costumes and Ponderings

**A/N: Updating again! Feel privileged; this is a 20.5-pager (on word) so WAAAAY more than usual! Mostly because this fiction is a serious addiction...intertwined with the Sherlock Holmes addiction I also fall victim to on occasion. Yes, I shall cease my appalling attempts at humour now and return to the dramatic cliff-hanger on which we left off...Thanks again to my beta, Chique52! (Check her fics if you love Gilmore Girls and the Bartimaeus Trilogy! You know you want to...) Sorry this is a ludicrously long chapter, I felt bad for taking so long to update, so made it a chapter (hopefully) worth the wait, by packing in as much as I could and generally writing too much. Thanks for your patience!! Please R&R, long chapters less often or shorter ones more regularly? Let me know please!**

**(Minor note: Have decided Mary and Watson are unmarried at this point, as I do not like this pairing being separated by marital laws :P So, as far as this fic is concerned, Watson is not married and Mary is purely a friend. In summary, I am messing with the timeline of the books just a little, for which I must crave your indulgence.)**

**Watson's POV**

Relief and fatigue overwhelm me as I return the hug, and I allow my head to fall forwards to rest on Holmes' shoulder. But only for a moment.

As the minor wave passes, I sigh, a faint whisper also slipping past my lips. My head jerks upright as I pray silently to God that I have not spoken aloud. That I'd just imagined it. That Holmes had not heard me. That those traitorous words, a betrayal of most typical society views, the words I had fought to suppress, had not found their way to the surface. I can only hope that instead they remain locked away beyond Holmes' deductive and often harsh gaze.

Yet, I had always known such thoughts could not remain hidden forever. I was aware from the very beginning that they would eventually break through the restraints I placed around them and overpower my rational mind. Such is the power, and price, of emotion. Since the instant of realisation, now many months ago, I have been constantly waiting, filled both with dread and relief at the prospect. The prospect of a moment when I no longer had to constantly be on my guard, maintaining a permanent wall around my secret. I would no longer have to attempt to guard it from my abnormally observant friend.

"_I love you."_

The words spin around my skull repeating that phrase again and again, every repetition building on my fear. A tiny grain of hope sparkles silently at the back of my cranium as the fear swells, washing away all rational thought in its path. He would hate me. He would throw me out. He would never so much as speak to me again... I feel my heart lurch as these poisoned thoughts spin round and round like a carousel.

Just one glance at his face, astounded and unmoving, convinced me that he had heard exactly what I'd said.

A fiery scarlet tinge bursts across my cheekbones, stinging my skin with shame, adding the tone of fear to my features. But I will not run from fear. That is one thing being a soldier in Afghanistan has taught me. Never to bow to fear, but to stand and face it with dignity and courage, regardless of the consequences.

I edge backwards slightly, in the hopes that such an action will somehow dissolve the newly-created tension between us, formed by my own hand. I relax my arms slightly, to assist Holmes in the escape he doubtless desires. His attitude towards any softer emotions or tenderness has never been favourable, and even if he permitted me to stay, things would never be the same between us. He would doubtless consider me weak, or my judgement impaired by feelings, sworn enemies of clear logical thought. Sworn enemies of Sherlock Holmes himself.

To my surprise, Holmes' arms prevent my moving, locked in place around me. I have no choice but to remain in his arms, but I do not trust myself to meet his scrutinising gaze, even for a second.

I curse my cowardice, but my face is now burning so brightly that I focus on attempting to drain the blood from my complexion, and at my obvious failure the burning only intensifies.

I desperately attempt to ignore the fire blazing in my cheeks, and find myself suddenly distracted by a sigh from Holmes. Frowning slightly, I turn my head a fractional amount, meeting his gaze.

As his shimmering grey orbs pierce through my layers of past deception, I find myself unable to move, despite the fact I know he can see straight through to my soul...and to the truth of my words. To add to my confusion, I also feel the blood cool in my face as his eyes survey me, although I feel that particular effect should be transposed...

"Watson..."

The sound of my name calls me back from the strange distant place detached from my present predicament, and I avert my eyes from his, unable to bear the pain of the rejection I anticipate. Instead I face his shoulder, unable to shake the feeling of shame as I cannot even look my friend in the eye. I wish to bury my face in his shoulder, but I do not. I am no coward. I said those words, I shall take their consequence.

I feel him hesitantly squeeze my shoulder. "...Watson?" His voice is unsure, his normal confidence diminished. An incredibly rare occurrence, and one I would ordinarily delight in, but now I feel no such joy. It is replaced with the heavy weight of fear.

I'm sure my voice sounds much the same as his, and despite my silent efforts he doubtless picks up on the shiver of dread in my reply. "Holmes."

One word, but to me it sounds like a death sentence, marking the end of our friendship. The hope at the back of my skull is ignored, swathed in fear and shame. I had caused this. I had brought this about. Such knowledge made it all so much worse.

Awkwardly, I lessen my grip on him, taking half a step backwards. Physical pain seems to assault my insides as I contemplate whether this will be the last time I shall see him.

A strange foreign glint flickers behind those grey eyes, one I do not recall ever detecting before. Was it hatred? Disgust?

Without thinking, I attempted another step backwards, my progress halted immediately by Holmes' right hand on my shoulder and other arm still around my back.

I blink briefly in confusion, staring directly at Holmes, his eyes immediately arresting my own. I detect a faint smile around the edges of his mouth. He always delights in befuddling me.

"You astound me Watson."

I can devise nothing to say in response, and so remain silent. I have already said far too much.

Holmes sighs, his features now strangely mask-like and restricted, as though he is somehow restraining his feelings. "...You give me too much credit Watson. There are many others far more deserving of your affections than I." His voice is casual, with a lightly teasing undertone, but I know it is really solemn.

Clearly he is not aware how this works. Maybe the apparent lack of logic and structure in cases of tenderness is why Holmes despises them so. The miniscule pinprick of hope at the base of my skull burns away some of the fear that shrouds my mind like a toxic fog, allowing me to think once more.

I almost feel like smiling, but manage to keep my face as blank and serious as I can. "That is an oddity Holmes, for I doubt that very much. After all, there is nobody else in the universe quite like you."

Holmes' expression wavers, and he briefly allows his confusion to surface. Yet I also detect a very slight reddening tinge flicker across his marble cheek. My friend barks his violent laugh, and I feel a smile etch itself onto my face.

"I'm serious Holmes. I have never met anyone else who plays the violin at such obscenely early hours, disregards excellent food, leaves his rooms in quite such disorder, complains so vigorously about my writing, has such total disregard for all opinions of others and smokes a ridiculous number of pipes. You are truly unique."

I am rewarded by another brief burst of laughter.

"And yet..." My tone is far more serious now. "Yet I have also never met anyone so reticent and withdrawn about all of his feelings."

"How can you be so sure that I have emotions Watson? I could be an emotionless void."

I can tell he's bluffing. Whilst his acting skills are superb, this time I perceive the truth in his eyes. "Because I have seen you laugh with joy, cry with sorrow and blaze with anger. In short Holmes, I know you too well." I return my gaze to his shoulder. "Besides, no emotionless void would remain anywhere near me after such a...declaration...Or turn such a fetching shade of pink."

I do not know what sparked this rush of confidence, but I am deeply appreciative of the source. Perchance it was the faint blush; perchance the words I had long wished to declare had allowed other statements to pour forth at long last, like a river as the dam breaks.

I glance briefly at Holmes, my previously nervous smile now a smirk as I notice he has now turned even more clearly pink, amusing me greatly.

"You are hardly one to talk Watson." His voice is almost a snap, a reflexive reply to any attempt to imply he has any emotions. "I note that you also have gone rather red in the face." However, I notice a familiar smirk adorning his features.

I grin, but inwardly grimace as the lapse in conversation reawakens us both to the somewhat awkward position in which we stand; Holmes with his hand on my shoulder and arm around my back, and me with arms still partially wrapped around him.

Awkwardly, I unwrap my arms entirely, expecting him to release me also. It comes as a great surprise when he does not. Instead, he chuckles quietly.

"Again Watson, you baffle me. One moment you profess that you love me, the next you continually attempt to escape me."

I frown up at him, as he is a good few inches taller than I am. "I...merely thought it might be less awkward." Holmes confuses me. He does not appear disgusted, angry or any other response I had anticipated. If anything, he seems amused, which irritates me. Amusement is not an acceptable response to my accidental confession.

"You seem confused Watson. Whatever torments you so?" He is still smirking, perhaps even more openly than before.

"Dammit Holmes, it isn't funny!" I snap, immediately regretting it. My nerves are having a negative impact on my tolerance.

His face becomes solemn in an instant as the smirk disappears. "I do not recall ever saying it was." He sighs. "Watson, you know I have very little knowledge or care for the softer, or indeed any emotions."

"It's fine." I face away from him, turning to go. He does not love me.

"If you would permit me to finish, my dear Watson." I look back at him out of habit. A faint flicker of a somewhat devious grin can be seen on his face for a second, then it's gone.

The next instant, Holmes is nearer, and his hand goes to my back, pushing me close to him, into an affectionate embrace. His head rests on mine for a moment and he mutters, "My Boswell."

At this moment, I am truly as in the dark as I am during the majority of our cases together. This hug is different from the previous amicable embraces, and my heart seems to leap out of my chest, though I know such a thing to be impossible. I carefully wrap my arms around him in return and he smiles, a dazzling smile, seeming to shine with the glow of one thousand suns. Despite his aversion to sociable life, had he the inclination, I know he would truly shine in such circles with his boundless acting and charisma. "Holmes?" I mutter, curiosity doubtless visible on my face.

"Dammit Watson, I thought this would make my reply to your original statement far more evident." He uses the same tone as he does when dismissing my incorrect inferences during a case. "Use those hidden deductive powers of yours."

"Enlighten me." I still don't expect him to return my affections and I continue to wonder why he has not yet banished his inverted friend from the premises.

For a moment, he just looks at me, and try as I might, I cannot fathom what he is thinking. With a sigh, he turns his gaze from mine and gently places a kiss on my temple. Such an action from _**Holmes**_, the man who despises soft emotions and rarely expresses any affection leaves me shocked, but ecstatic.

I notice, perhaps for the first time since I met Holmes, and a flicker of uncertainty in his slate-grey orbs as he pulls away, as if to gauge my reaction. "I am not accustomed to love, Watson. I was not fully aware how slim the difference is between friendship and love before now, and as you know I despise the weakness emotions are able to inspire in me. I...do not know how to love..."

I simply smile. "Well, you do learn fast Sherlock."

He blinks with surprise at my use of his Christian name, but I am too relieved and ecstatic to wait for any response. Instead, I slip my arm around his neck and press my lips to his, just for a moment. To my amusement, as I move to pull away, I find myself held in place by my friend's hand at the base of my own neck.

I begin to run out of air, and Holmes pulls away, supporting me with both hands. "Dear John."

I feel a twinge of childish joy as he uses my forename, a welcome change from our ordinary manner of referring to each another by surnames at all times. It seemed to mark the end, or rather the beginning of a new chapter in our relationship, or any other term which might be applied to the situation. I doubt very much that a name has been created for us yet, or that people such as I (and evidently Holmes) are even acknowledged as such; besides being deemed inverted. For convenience's sake, I resolve to describe us as "partners" as Holmes does so often.

Rational thought is abruptly and effectively silenced by Holmes' lips upon my own once more, no longer hesitant, for Holmes' confidence grows fast in all matters to which he applies himself. I close my eyes, savouring the moment, and I slowly move my hand to his dark hair, similar in colour to that of a panther.

I feel Holmes abruptly stiffen and without warning he jerks away. A stinging hurt jabs into my soul as I fear he has merely misinterpreted his friendly affections for me, and has now realised his mistake. I am unable to suppress the flicker of pain that passes across my face. He darts to the door, hand flying to the key. I frown and listen intently for a moment, and sure enough I hear muffled voices from the floor below. Now assailed by guilt at my immediate leap to the worst scenario my mind could muster, I turn towards the window to catch a glimpse of the visitor. However, Holmes' long fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling me to face him as he cups my cheek with his free hand.

"Good god Watson, when will you cease to doubt me? What do I have to say to dispel those ridiculous expressions of yours?"

"What expressions?" I keep my face as neutral as I am able.

Holmes' eyes dart briefly to the door, now securely locked, then back to my own. "Your wounded countenance, dammit Watson!" He transfers his gaze to the wall over my right shoulder, his voice growing far quieter. "It...Is painful to see you look at me like that. As if you doubt me."

I appreciate this as one of the very rare instances when Holmes openly makes reference to his emotions, and I enfold him in a gentle hug. "I'm sorry Holmes. But you know I trust you, even when you forget your revolver."

He chuckles dryly. "As I trust you to remember yours."

I roll my eyes, although he cannot see this, and watch his head flick across to the door, the handle of which is being turned, but to no avail.

"Mister Holmes! Doctor Watson!"

I recognise the voice of our landlady Mrs Hudson and watch Holmes for his reaction. He ignores her completely, probably in the hopes that she shall leave.

With an amused air, I untangle myself from Holmes, briefly pausing to adjust my collar in the mirror. Holmes' response is an irritated sigh, before turning his back on the door and lighting his pipe. My smirk of beguilement is assuredly evident as I unlock and throw open the door.

"Alas Watson, it seems our irrepressible housekeeper has managed to bypass the door once again...What is it now Mrs Hudson?"

Mrs Hudson only stares in horror, though this expression quickly transmutes to scolding. As per usual Sherlock Holmes, pioneer in the field of private detection, has successfully obliterated all semblance of order in his rooms. I stifle a chuckle, but our housekeeper has a sharp eye.

"This is not funny Doctor! Look at the state of these rooms!"

I inject seriousness into my countenance with some difficulty. "Of course it's not." Beat. "It's disgraceful Holmes."

Holmes pays my comment no attention and picks his way carefully across the chaotic sea of papers, folders with contents askew, dented maps, fallen chair and remnants of a certain syringe. It is perhaps fortunate that this carnage hides the broken glass from Mrs Hudson's piercing gaze.

"Mrs Hudson if you are here solely to inspect the rooms do please make yourself scarce. Watson and I have some important business to attend to..."

Reverting my eyes momentarily to Holmes' face, I can only pray that last comment did not sound half so suggestive to our poor landlady as it did to me. Fortunately, she does not appear to have caught the suggestive undertone I thought I detected.

"A note arrived for you both." She holds out a small square envelope, which Holmes almost snatches from her.

"Thank you and goodbye Mrs Hudson." As abrupt as ever, Holmes shoos her back onto the landing and locks the door once more.

I wait patiently as he rips open the note, all personal matters disregarded momentarily at the prospect of a new and exciting case. Too accustomed to this to feel hurt or neglected, I find I am almost grateful, as it grants me time for rational thought without distraction. The first and most pressing problem is the illegality of our relationship. Despite Holmes' mockery of the law, I find this a far more fearful and dangerous matter than that of the simple breaking and entering we have committed on occasion. Such a scandal could damage Holmes' career considerably, and entirely obliterate my small practice.

The second problem was the flirtatious and persistent Mary, who is allegedly (according to Holmes) intent on making me her husband. Not that I had ever fully intended to accept such a role, except during the vague unrealistic meanderings into the realm of 'what if' where I pondered my existence as a normal human being, who was not inverted. In my youth and naivety, I had believed this reluctance to marry, as my darling mother dearly wanted, was due to a desire to be free, young and independent. I also believed it was a fear of being tied down, locked in a relationship for all eternity (little did I know I would later spend years of my life following an eccentric detective, with whom I was deeply and foolishly in love, around the world solving riddles!) However, I now know this was, in reality, the fault of a key aspect of my nature, the fact that I am an invert. Now I know such a life never really held any appeal for me, though fatherhood may do. No danger, no excitement, just the mundane existence of a husband. As much as I know I can never be happy with Mary, or in such a tediously lethargic existence, I am loathe to injure her feelings. I will also almost miss her company, as she is indisputably a good conversationalist and is often witty, though she is quickly cast into shadow by the radiance of Holmes. In reality, I muse, it is not really a choice. No matter what the scenario, Holmes would be chosen over Mary every time, as he chose my friendship over his cocaine vice. Gratitude and slight flattery well up in me at such a thought, and I silently promise I shall never give him any cause to regret that decision.

And for the third, rather more embarrassingly evident problem, it shall have to be dealt with in one way or another later on, and preferably in a slightly more private environment. The human anatomy never ceases to amaze or embarrass me, often in equal measures.

"My dear Boswell you look truly pensive." The voice, and the obvious smirk behind it, calls me back to the present and I realise Holmes' gaze is fixed on me.

"That my dear Holmes would be because I was in deep thought."

"Watson, you truly have a considerable talent for stating the obvious. I had surmised as much." Beat. "Although I must confess I have failed to decipher the root of your musings. Please be kind enough to enlighten me upon this matter."

I laugh. "Can you not utilise those famous deductive powers of yours?"

"Enlighten me." He repeats once more, demonstrating his remarkable memory. I almost feel a slight surge of pride that my words had been committed to memory, alongside those crucial facts that form Holmes' casebook.

"I would, were I unaware how much you delight in deciphering puzzles. Consider it my method of keeping your mind free from stagnation, my dear chap." I sit in my favourite chair by the fire, one leg folded over the other and paper open in my hands.

Holmes merely pouts.

"Holmes, are you aware quite how undignified that particular expression is?" I fix my eyes firmly on the paper in my hands, chuckling quietly at Holmes' puerile persuasion tactics.

I don't have time to even consider my reaction before the newspaper is yanked sharply from my grasp. On some illogical instinct, I jerk backwards into the seat of my chair. A slight miscalculation on my part then causes it to tilt back in an ungainly fashion.

For an instant, I see fear penetrate the swirling grey clouds of Holmes' irises, a ray of light bursting through the usually misted and impervious emotional clouds. Instinct forces my eyes shut, but the backwards movement ceases almost instantaneously as Holmes' hand grips the arm of my chair, preventing it from tilting any further.

"I think your reactions may require more rigorous control Watson."

"And yours far less." I release a breath I was not aware I had been holding. A devious notion suggests itself, unrequested, to my mind and I smother my amusement at the idea. Perhaps I may be able to astound and befuddle the great Sherlock Holmes twice in the space of a few hours.

Stifling the devious grin that threatens to show on my face, I slide my hand under his, where it rests on the arm of my chair.

Again a tiny gap in his emotionless, confident facade flickers into existence, or at least becomes more prominent. I watch his irises cloud with momentary confusion and awkward inexperience, as unaccustomed as Holmes is expressing emotions - not to mention human contact. I squeeze his hand slightly, in what I hope is a reassuring manner. Holmes allows his emotionless expression to fade, replaced with a slight smile of quiet affection. I have always been aware that Holmes is not at ease when demonstrating affection, particularly through words. I think he finds it nigh impossible to admit that he needs human contact and affection, because he is, despite what he might wish, human. A person with emotions, thoughts, dreams, fears... The small and somewhat exclusive group for whom he can even entertain vague forms of affection know not to expect admittance of human requirements from Holmes, a man so confident and controlled that many wrongly assume he is devoid of emotion, although I must admit that was also my impression upon our first acquaintance. However, I do make an effort to allow aspects of his mortal emotions during our adventures into my accounts, despite his protests about the romanticism and emphasis of these journals. I would like to think I know better than to believe his emotionless exterior, for I could say I know him better than most. I understand that he feels uncomfortable expressing his feelings, particularly those of the affectionate variety, and that he has often attempted to distance himself from these as a result. Ironically, this only serves to make him even less accustomed to such feelings, as he has not, to my knowledge, ever had reason to express them before, unlike me. In the area of affection and love, I would not hesitate to say that I am far more experienced than Holmes, who grew to despise and resent them, perhaps as he could not interpret them or understand their logic, of which they have none.

They must seem alien to him.

But not to me. I have always taken emotions for granted, a crucial part of my being, for I do not believe any man can be truly whole without some degree of feeling. They are, after all, the root of my loyalty to Holmes. Without any affection, I would not be the loyal Boswell, Holmes' great friend and biographer. Affection is the reason I have suffered Holmes' obscenely early violin playing, his erratic lifestyle and deliberate withholding of plans until the last possible instant. I have often thought that I must be mad. But then, do not many poets say love is a form of madness? Do they not say it can cause you to become erratic, inane and illogical, and that it can send you voyaging to the ends of the earth, flying through the skies, following the whims of another? To put one's life in danger without a second thought to secure the safety of another... I believe them, for I can see no other explanation. My love for Holmes has put us both in great danger, dragged me into situations where I had to trust his judgement, and often purely suspicions or vague inferences, with my life.

And I would not change it for the entire world.

Holmes hesitates awhile, but then I feel him tentatively squeeze my hand in response.

Tightening my grip, now around his wrist, I brace my feet against the floor. Holmes frowns slightly, doubtless pondering what I intend to do next. A devious smirk glowing on my face, I simultaneously push backwards on the chair and pull Holmes forwards, almost onto my lap. Exactly as I'd planned, the chair clatters backwards onto the carpeted floor, and the pair of us fall with it.

Almost before we hit the floor, Holmes raises his weight from me, supporting himself on his arms.

"My god John, are you alright?"

I chuckle briefly, amused and touched by the fear diluting his voice. He clearly didn't think I had intended this to happen. For answer, I place a hand at the base of his neck and guide him gently down for a kiss.

"Of course Sherlock."

His face lights up in sudden understanding and I smile up at him, his dark head a stark contrast with the paleness of the ceiling above him.

I see my devious grin reflected on his features, this time with no hesitancy to be seen in his grey orbs. He rolls, reversing our positions and flipping me onto my back as he does so. With a sigh, he locks his arms around my torso and I lean back, resting my head on his shoulder.

For a while we just lie there in silence, enjoying the closeness and peace it brings us. I tilt my head to plant a kiss on his jaw, and he smiles his dazzling grin, eyes glistening with affection and peaceful joy.

I hear approaching footfalls and lift my head, but Holmes growls quietly and yanks it back to his shoulder.

"Mr Holmes?"

I feel my heart constrict with fear as the voice of Inspector Lestrade drifts under the door. I hastily begin to sit up and move away from Holmes, but his arms do not budge and I am held in place.

"Yes Inspector? I am rather busy at present." Holmes' tone is deliberately abrupt to dissuade visitors from lingering.

"Of course. I merely wondered if you and Doctor Watson would be gracing us with your presence tonight." Lestrade's tone is audible through the wooden door.

I glance at Holmes and he sighs. "At this...social gathering?"

"Yes...The lads thought it might be rather entertaining-"

Holmes opens his mouth to interrupt, but I am quicker than he. "We'll be there."

"Excellent. Well, I'll leave you to your work...Goodbye Doctor...Holmes." Footsteps are heard retreating back downstairs.

I almost laugh at the easily noticeable indignation on Holmes' face.

"Watson, what were you thinking?!"

"We have no other plans for tonight, and you spend far too much time hiding in here as it is. You never know, you may even find it amusing." I cannot disguise the tremor of suppressed laughter in my tone.

"I doubt that." Holmes scoffs. He pauses, and his final puerile protest contains just the faintest hint of a whine. "But John...it's a costume party!"

I withhold my grin with some difficulty. "I see what Lestrade meant; it may be rather entertaining after all."

"Lestrade and a room of other erroneous detectives in equally inane costumes is not my idea of an enjoyable evening Watson."

"I never said enjoyable. I simply stated that it could be rather amusing."

"Scotland Yard is hardly renowned as the centre of comic genius, is it Watson?"

I allow myself a brief chuckle. "It may well be after this...Depending on the costume theme of course."

I notice Holmes is forcing himself not to smirk, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly with silent belligerence.

"Considering..." His smirk breaks through to the surface of his countenance. "Technically there is no theme; although I suspect Lestrade and his troops shall have some pre-arranged theme between themselves."

"We will stick out like a sore thumb."

"Naturally."

I begin to regret accepting the invitation. Perhaps a little more thought would have been a good idea...Well it is too late for such contemplations now. Yet I am also fuelled with determination. Holmes is attempting to persuade me not to go, to avoid an evening of socialising. I am supposed to be the one persuading him!

"What's the matter Holmes? After all, you do have quite a stash of costumes."

He pouts indignantly. "Those are disguises."

I laugh. "I must admit, I fail to see the difference myself, dear chap."

"Difference? John, there is _all_ the difference in the world!" Holmes pauses, and I fancy I can hear the wheels of his mind whirring into life, driving the reasoning and deductive engine on which Holmes prides himself. His continued use of my Christian name again emphasises the change in the tone of our relationship, and I feel my mood lighten even further, just with that one word.

"Costumes tend to be expensive, flamboyant and wholly tasteless. Disguises can be almost free of charge, inconspicuous and with some semblance of taste or sanity." He continues in a factual timbre.

I chuckle quietly. "Then why do you not attend the event in disguise rather than costume?"

"It's not worth the materials." Holmes sighs. "All of those imbecilic inspectors shall know who we are regardless; it is pointless attempting to hide such a fact from them, especially as we must endure several hours of their mediocre conversations."

"Come now Holmes, have a sense of humour." I tease, smirking as I slip out of his locked limbs without his noticing...For approximately three seconds.

He bolts upright, and I flinch with surprise as his hands grab my shoulders.

"And where do you think you are going Watson?" He growls in my ear.

I disguise the unintentional shiver this invokes, my smirk clearly visible. "We must organise our costumes, my dear Sherlock."

"...waste of an evening." He mutters, with very slight indignation.

I slide my feet under me, and without warning I begin to stand. For once I am taller than him, looking down on the seated detective whom I adore. But having now spent half an hour on the floor, it might just be starting to look suspicious. Back on my feet, I almost burst into gales of laughter as I notice the expression that adorns Holmes' face. He greatly resembles a small boy who has just suffered the confiscation of one of his prize possessions. It is almost as though he is both his adult self and childish self simultaneously. As if he never fully managed to grow up, part of him left behind in childhood, possibly because his emotions, so tightly reined in, could not manage to grow or mature. He still seems to retain the innocence (yet not the naivety) and on occasion the emotions of his childish self, a young boy with outstanding deductive and analytical powers yet still, at heart, a child. A normal child with a sense of adventure, perhaps more pride than most, and maybe...emotion. I find myself wondering when he locked up his emotions and threw away the key, and hoping I can find this key and return it to him, so he can express emotion once again.

He watches me with an analytical expression, head tilted slightly to one side, observing with almost childlike curiosity. I smile with silent laughter and tilt my own cranium to the right, watching surprise and regalement play in his eyes. These grey orbs are my greatest indicator of his moods, the irises clouding to grey fog when he is angry or spiralling into lethargy and the depression this inevitably invokes; gleaming as brightly as the moon's silver glow when full of joy or merriment. His visage is too rigidly controlled (though perhaps this is necessary for impersonations) for me to use it to gauge his moods or thoughts, and every day I grow surer in my conviction that he learns more about my character than even I know, and incontestably surpassing what I know of his. Of his disposition, although I am no longer flummoxed, I must admit that I still am, at times, woefully uncertain and often fail to predict his next actions with any degree of certainty. His is, in truth, an anomaly. But an adorable one.

I stretch out a hand. He hesitates, perhaps as a result of his reluctance to ever accept help from another, but after a brief pause he clasps my hand in his, like hand in glove. I tug my arm back, pulling him to his feet.

"I can stand without assistance." He insists, feigning a disgruntled tone and taking advantage of his height to look piercingly down at me.

"Yes, but no doubt you would refuse to do so purely to delay us further." I reply, gesturing authoritatively in the direction of the extensive case of costumes stashed in his bedroom, though due to the closed door, I merely pointed in the direction of his bedroom...

A brief flicker of...fear? Nerves? Anticipation bordering on dread? An uncommon emotion darts across Holmes' face before being replaced, almost instantaneously, by a twinkling mask of humour. I feel my cheeks burn slightly, and manage to stammer some form of intelligible explanation, endeavouring to keep my face and voice stern. Holmes wanders nonchalantly in the aforementioned direction, although I hear a brief chuckle, barely audible over the flickering flames still dancing in the fireplace. I hadn't-I didn't mean it in that way...not in the slightest! My own embarrassment is pushed aside as I recall the former unshielded expression that showed itself on Holmes' countenance. Ordinarily, I would not have even glimpsed it behind that impenetrable facade, but he is less guarded at the present instance, as is the tendency of emotions. Guilt assails my spine, the spikes making me increasingly uncomfortable. I do not follow him, instead pausing by the couch and sitting down carefully, deep in contemplation. What was that flicker? Why was it present? Then a thought crosses my mind, though I doubt its merits or likelihood. Sherlock Holmes, a virgin? Of all those I am acquainted with, he is by far the most inquisitive... I had always assumed he would have been one of the first to...experiment, as is common, particularly at boarding schools. Perhaps I have made a complete miscalculation in this respect. It may of course be perfectly possible that he is a human being entirely devoid of any desire for physical intimacy. It is not an impossibility, after all. Maybe he is as distant from such mortal desires of flesh as most believe him to be...

"Watson?" A faint sigh reaches my ears, as though from miles away. "Watson, must you continue to pursue these ponderings at such inconvenient moments?"

I blink, my eyes refocusing on the familiar surroundings, my mental meanderings having blocked the material world from my mind for the duration of my deliberations. I had not noticed Holmes' return, with a pile of possible disguises with which to further the destruction and lack of organisation in his rooms.

"I-was just..."

"And what was this matter of such supreme fascination?" He asks, kneeling beside the pile of 'disguises' and sifting through them with a critical eye.

I inhale smoothly. "I was speculating as to the cause of your momentary expression."

"What expression?" I would almost have believed him, had he not immediately started to scan the costume pile with increased fervour.

I am seized with a sudden determination to get a straight answer. "I am torn between nerves and apprehension..." I notice him flinch slightly, as though my words have physically struck him. "...Why Holmes?"

"I have no recollection of the aforementioned instance, and so can be of no assistance-"

"Holmes! I insist upon an answer!" It emerges like a demand, a rare occurrence, usually transposed.

Holmes replaces the disguise he is examining back in the jumble before him, and almost seems to shrink. I feel as though I should hug him, hold him close and protect him...But not yet. I force myself to wait until he speaks. I am not kept in suspense for long.

"It was a long time ago. I do not like to discuss it." His tone is cold, but I detect slight pain behind it.

"Holmes..." I spring from the sofa, rewarded by a slight twinge in my old wound, and kneel beside him, placing my arm around his shoulders with only slight hesitation.

He seems to melt in my arms momentarily, slumping towards me, an abrupt change from the confident Sherlock Holmes I am accustomed to seeing.

"It's not good for you to keep things bottled up Holmes."

He manages a snort of disbelief. He has always treated such suggestions with cynicism.

"I'm serious Holmes. It may not seem so at present, but it is far better to let it out." I smile. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

I detect an almost silent snigger, followed be an even quieter muttering from Holmes.

"I would not have you think less of me."

I hold him closer still, resting his head on mine for a moment, inhaling his scent. An intoxicating blend of his favoured tobacco, faint hints of eccentric chemical experiments and a scent that is simply Holmes. "Holmes, I swear nothing could ever change my high opinion of you."

"You may say that now-"

"I mean it." I pull away slightly, and turn his head to face me with a hand underneath his chin. "You know I mean it."

I gaze into his slate-grey eyes, now solemn and restricted, closed off from the world, and I am unable to deduce anything from them. It comes as a great surprise to me when he at last begins to speak.

"I was in my final year at the grammar school, boarding of course. One evening towards the beginning of term, my roommate suggested I might like to join him and some friends for some...entertainment. It was always a mundane and tedious business, finding something to occupy my intelligence, and so naturally I accepted the offer. I had certain ideas of the experimentations this might involve, and even though I did find some to potentially be not entirely disagreeable; no one ever really managed to arrest my attention. Yet I went along; perhaps it was an inane decision." He pauses. "Predictably, the evening was to be concluded in an acquaintance's own room. Upon reaching the crucial point however, I found I could not bring myself to...do it. Instead, I fled, fully-clothed I might add." He buries his head in my shoulder. "The only acknowledged virgin in the entire year, Watson. I could not even fulfil the most commonplace of all rites of passage. I, who prides myself on my curiosity and experience, have failed in an area where all others succeed. An area far more commonplace than even the murder cases I refuse every day."

"What did you do?" I begin to understand. Because he wasn't ready, he had assumed he was cursed to fail consistently at any real physical intimacy. It is almost ironic, in a way.

"The only thing one in my position could do." His voice is muffled, though far more controlled, a return to his normal factual timbre. "Buried myself in my studies, shunned society and resigned myself to a life of loneliness..." I detect hesitation in his voice and wait for him to continue. "...Until I met my Boswell. Though I admit that retaining your company is wholly selfish of me, as I cannot fulfil even the simplest of intimacies-"

"Holmes." I cannot hide the amusement that seeps into my voice. He glances up, bemused. This does not aid my attempts at solemnity in any way, and I struggle to keep my voice level. "Holmes, can you hear what you are saying? Do you honestly think I would love you any less for such a miniscule and _erroneous_ reason? My dear chap, I have loved you in secret without such 'intimacy' for years, and I must say I am almost offended you think me so shallow!" I kiss the top of his forehead, my countenance a mixture of regalement and affection. "In any case, I believe you have been theorising with a paucity of data. Not everyone is ready for such things by a synonymous age, and I can honestly say I too was indisposed to complete that same 'rite of passage' before becoming romantically involved, which I consider more of a blessing than a fault."

He stares at me in mild shock, as though he has just encountered an epiphany. "Watson...John...I believe I may have been as blind as a beetle. Your deductions have shamed me to the core." He slaps a hand to his skull. "I should have seen this before. I have been absorbed in self-pity and resignation when I should have been concentrating on the facts!"

I just smile. That's the Holmes I know...and love.

Even if he can be slightly irksome or aggravatingly stubborn on occasion, as the glint of pale light reflecting off splintered glass edges serves to remind me.

It also prompts me; a reminder that I should dispose of the aforementioned syringe before our long-suffering landlady discovers it and demands an explanation. The fewer questions asked regarding the somewhat turbulent events of last night, the better it shall be for the both of us.

I note Holmes' expression has changed to one of annoyance, which I interpret as irritation at his own error of judgement. I maintain my cheery smile and relinquish my grip on him, whilst leaving one arm resting upon his shoulders.

"We really must begin preparing our 'disguises', Holmes."

"Or perhaps I could abruptly develop some manner of minor ailment and pilfer a night of your attentions solely for myself." His smirk borders on the diabolical.

"Do so and I shall have no option but to leave you in Mrs Hudson's care while attending the party by myself."

Holmes mumbles something which sounds more like a growl than coherent speech, and I decide to ignore it, instead focusing my energies on sifting through the avalanche of random items.

"Holmes, none of these items have any semblance of similarity!" I exclaim, dropping the article in my hand with a sigh.

His response is a quiet chuckle.

"You must observe far more carefully my dear Watson, beyond the colourings. I agree you have a swift eye for colour but in this circumstance that is rather more of a hindrance than an asset." He smirks slightly and selects two boots, both varying shades of brown, yet now I see they are in fact synonymous.

His smirk broadens. "In many of my disguises Watson, it has been necessary for my boots to appear odd, as would befit my character's financial circumstances."

" You altered the colour of perfectly good boots, which none excluding yourself would have observed, and which then prevents them being used in an alternate scenario, purely to mimic your character's financial situation?" I would previously have been startled by this lack of regard for perfectly decent boots, but years of living with Holmes' devotion to his impersonations has altered my expectations, and now it only vaguely surprises me.

Holmes places the boots on the carpet beside him and glances up at me with triumph in his eyes. "But Watson, you also perceived the difference in colour, however minor, proving my strategy to have had the desired effect. Therefore, I believe they served their purpose rather well, and justified the slight alterations."

"It still seems a waste." I resume my scavenging of similar items from the pile, which is gradually being depleted.

His voice becomes cooler. "Would you consider these meticulous boot alterations justified if I were to tell you they assisted in the discovery and capture of a criminal? A murderer, in fact?"

I fear I may have offended him by criticising his handiwork, as I know he abhors any discussion of his failings, except on that first occasion when we met and procured these rooms together in Baker Street and each informed the other of our various shortcomings.

"Holmes I did not mean-"

I slide my gaze from the pile, and watch Holmes' stern expression melt to reveal one of mirth.

"Purely a joke my Boswell, purely a joke." He bursts into one of his brief yet violent laughs, and I cannot prevent myself from chuckling, though far more quietly.

"I say Holmes; I do believe you have been secretly developing a sense of humour."

"Whatever would Mycroft say? My new-found sense of humour would assure him that I was really an imposter."

"You must have had a sense of humour at one time Holmes." Surely he had laughed when he was a child? Although considering his brother's reluctant, reclusive nature, I have my doubts about this.

Holmes pauses for a moment, his eyes fixed upon the window and the shaft of sunlight which pours through it. "Perhaps Watson...Perhaps."

I can devise no response to this, and I cannot shake off the feeling that there is certain information to which I am not privy...

Regarding Holmes' youth.

It worries me, as he never speaks of any of his family, save Mycroft on occasion, and he never mentions any events of his younger years, with the one exception I have just learnt. I have often wondered how such intelligent brothers became so disillusioned with society and locked themselves away; Mycroft in the Diogenes Club and Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street. I cannot fathom what events could have so blackened their view of humanity that Mycroft in particular can scarcely bear to be part of society.

"Holmes, are any of these disguises suitable for the event?" I sigh, dropping two leather gloves back on the pile. Though not before noting that they are women's gloves...

Holmes surveys the carnage with a technical eye. "Not that I can see."

"Spiffing."

Holmes' smile does not fade. "Do not be so easily discouraged Watson! I have the perfect solution."

With these words he leaps to his feet and strides to the door, pausing to glance back at me. "Hurry Watson, we have little under an hour!"

I smile, shaking my head slightly, and follow him, reaching the door as he darts out into the hall and up the staircase towards...my room?

Upon arriving in my room, I find Holmes scavenging items from my wardrobe. "Holmes?"

"Do not fret Watson; it is all part of my solution." He continues to scan my garments with a critical eye. I sit on a small chair by the door and watch him at work.

A mere three minutes later, he rushes out of the room, carrying half of the contents of my wardrobe. With sudden anticipation of their fate I follow him back down the stairs. "Holmes will you please explain what is going on?"

"All shall become clear momentarily dear Watson." He replies from within his own room and I wander back across to the pile of disguises, the gloves catching my eye again.

"Holmes?"

"Yes Watson?" His tone is distracted, and my smile spreads.

"Why do you have a woman's gloves in your possession?" I hold one up and watch the doorway for movement.

I am rewarded by a longer burst of merriment from inside his room, and he pokes his head around the door.

"An excellent question Watson, a truly excellent question. But it shall have to wait for another time."

I chortle quietly, throwing the glove back onto the flattened pile. The unsolved mystery of Sherlock Holmes and the woman's glove.

Though I feel it may not be entirely appropriate for public consumption...

**A/N: PLEASE REVIEW! And sorry it took so long...Review it as you please.**


	4. Cabs and Hats

_**A/N: Hello again! Long time no see... Rest assured, this lack of updating has been killing me. Almost literally. Hell hath no fury like writer's block. So here it is. Finally some inspiration stuck long enough for me to wake up and scrawl it on the wall. My mum was pretty mad about that. Right, little mini fluff-infested chapter, and the FINALE coming up next chapter...brace yourselves, readers.**_

_**Thank you to my beta, Chique52! Who is mostly responsible for me finally updating. In fact, wholly responsible for that.**_

**Holmes' P.O.V.**

"Holmes?"

"Yes Watson?" I reply, although the better part of my attention is focused on the contents of my wardrobe, employed in searching for suitable vestments for my...scheme, for want of a better word.

"Why do you have a woman's gloves in your possession?"

Had the question itself not amused me, the associated memories most definitely would. It is rather useful on occasion for the official police to be as dense as Lestrade, believing that I was in fact my own (previously non-existent) sister.

I cannot prevent a violent laugh escaping, and I turn my attention fully to Watson for the moment, poking my head around the door in the manner commonly utilised by housewives when straining to hear their neighbours' conversations. Noticing Watson holding up the glove, with an expression which is more of amusement than any other emotion, I smirk.

"An excellent question Watson, a truly excellent question. But it shall have to wait for another time."

I tuck my skull back inside the room, and continue sorting through various garments. I detect the quiet chuckle of my dear friend, and a smile tugs at my own lips. I must learn to resist that particular impulse, at least for tonight. I have previously connected "love" only with the losses and concessions one must make and the minor inconveniences which those in this state never seem to see, and even in my present state of...not exactly giddiness- I am not one for being giddy –more befitting high spirits than any other description, I am still able to notice this minor inconvenience. The aforementioned inconvenience being the probability of miniscule flaws in my previously immaculate acting skills.

Yet, one difference I have noted is that it seems so infinitesimally small an inconvenience now that I hardly understand why I am bothering to contemplate it at all. Perhaps that is the secret to "love" and its infamous bewitching tendencies...

Half an hour later, I finally emerge into the sitting room, carrying two sets of clothes. Watson seems to have taken advantage of my absence (brief in terms of minutes and reality; long in terms of my internal clock, which seems to believe it has been a ridiculous length of time) to put pen to paper once again.

As often happens when Watson is writing, he fails to notice my re-entry, however dramatic, and his sparkling blue eyes are focused on the page with such intensity that I almost feel envious...ludicrous as that would be. Despite my mild temptation to sneak up on him and peek at his latest work of romantic fiction, as I do regularly without his knowledge, I cough to alert him to the fact I have emerged. Everyone craves privacy sometimes.

Besides, I can always devise another means of observing his literature later.

Startled, he jumps at the sound of my cough, abruptly beginning to look oddly suspicious, like a schoolboy caught in wrong-doing. He foils my plans of perusing his writings by tucking the small notebook into an inside pocket. However, I can doubtless devise some other means of achieving that aim regardless.

"Come along Watson, or we shall be late."

He raises an eyebrow. "Holmes, I thought we were going in disguise."

My smirk must be similar to that of a fox. "Indeed we are."

His expression is almost adorably befuddled. And it is not often that **I** use such a word. Adorable seems to sound wrong coming from my lips.

"HHHolmes, those are my clothes." He gestures at one of the two selections.

I laugh. "Really Watson, your blazing talent for stating the obvious must surely be unrivalled." I notice a thought strike a chord across his visage, as he sees my plan in that instant.

"Holmes, you can't possibly believe this shall ever work."

"And why would it not?"

He folds his arms and fixes me with a stare. "Because Holmes, I am fairly sure that Lestrade and _any_ member of the public who has previously encountered us will know which of us is which, even if we _are_ wearing each other's clothes." He relents however, his face breaking into that grin of his which is never far below the surface. "We are hardly identical, Holmes."

I sigh in feigned exasperation. "My dear Watson, the point of these...masquerades is not to hide your identity, but to make it plainly obvious who you _are_!"

Watson raises an eyebrow in mild disbelief. "How logical." But his grin does not even flicker.

"Sarcasm is not particularly becoming, Watson." My voice lacks the tone to make the comment sound realistic, a transparent attempt at teasing. I've never been as proficient at fooling Watson as others, but I often find this is simply because I don't _wish_ to deceive him. Nor do I have any need to do so, as I can trust my Boswell with my life.

My Boswell glances at the clock on the mantelpiece, and sighs. "Very well Holmes." He takes the selection from me - all my smallest clothes to minimise the size differences - but regalement shows clearly on his face.

"Well Watson, it was your idea to attend." I smirk, in what could be seen as a wolfish manner. "Perhaps next time you too shall understand the wisdom of my choice to remain inside."

He does not dignify that with a response, leaving with a quiet chuckle. I listen for his footsteps as he climbs the stairs and crosses into his own room.

Approximately ten minutes later, I am in the process of attaching a fake moustache to my upper lip. Not strictly necessary, but if one is to act a part I firmly believe that all details, however minute, must be observed, just as they would were I investigating a murder case. It feels incredibly odd to be dressed as Watson, and I hear the scuffling of equally befuddled feet emerging from his room upstairs.

Moustache now firmly attached, I grab both hats from the stand, throwing our coats over my arm as I step out onto the landing and shut the door firmly behind me.

Watson comes into sight at the top of the stairs, and he freezes. I take a step nearer, and see that he is shaking slightly.

"John?" That nagging, impulsive worry spurs my journey up the stairs to meet him, at which point I notice he is desperately trying to stop himself from bursting into hysterics.

Feeling rather inane, I give him a moment or two to compose himself and he does so, coughing slightly before smirking across at me.

"Holmes, I do believe there is a caterpillar on your face." At which he subsides into chuckles again.

I wiggle the aforementioned facial addition for dramatic effect and Watson looks away, slowly turning red with suppressed laughter.

I only hope that Lestrade and his cronies do not find it so amusing. I am not compelled to stand such behaviour from them...Watson is a special exception. As he is to many of my rules, restrictions and boundaries which I enforce with all others.

He alone is permitted to tease and laugh at me, because he does it only in camaraderie, as a true friend. Watson, one of the few people I can truly call a friend, and now also...a lover?

I still cannot fully understand that concept. Even now my mind refuses to fully absorb this particular fact. It almost scares me, in a way; seemingly surreal. It is as though I still cannot be sure whether this is true, solid rock of fact, rather than a flimsy wooden supposition or miscalculation. I really do not deserve such luck. I truly do not deserve such a Watson.

These thoughts take up the time between exiting our rooms and hailing a cab. Once inside the dim interior, we sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the streets of London skim past, giving tiny glimpses into the minor occurrences which form the chains of crime, mystery and love. The chains I am keen to observe, that are as pivotal to my trade as my Boswell is to my continued contentment.

But today...the streets of London and all their problems are of much less interest to me when compared with my Boswell, seated opposite me at this very moment, one side of his face illuminated by the glow of streetlamps as we rattle past. I am experiencing the blurry blinkers of love that I never thought would have any such effect on me. Fortunately, I was incorrect in this assumption. Since his attention is diverted out of his own window, I can draw the blind on the opposing side without his noticing. Smirking, I slide across to sit directly opposite him and, watching him carefully, lower the opposing blind also.

Due to the lateness of the hour, the light penetrating the cab is increasingly restricted and I find myself barely able to see.

"Interesting plan Holmes."

His voice is now much nearer and I try to pick out his shadowy form, but my eyes are still endeavouring to adjust to the abrupt change in lighting, another example of how the human body fails to keep pace with the human mind. I feel a hand on my knee and reflexively jump slightly, to my annoyance. I hear a chuckle next to my right ear, and know Watson is smirking.

Obviously, I cannot allow this.

The cab passes a gas light, and what little light enters the shadowy cab illuminates Watson's face, I raise a hand, changing tactic swiftly to take him by surprise, pulling his face to mine for a kiss, much less tenderly than previously. As he pulls away, I sense his smile. I don't know how I sense it, but I do.

"Really Holmes, have you no self control?"

It's clear to me that the words are meant in jest, and I growl faintly in response. "_Far_ too much."

At this point I am holding his head in both hands, tracing the outline of his face without any assistance from illumination.

I feel the tip of one finger brush across my fake moustache, and another chuckle reaches my ears.

"Honestly Watson, you'll ruin our disguises if you keep chortling like that."

Watson does not reply, instead attempting to trace the planes of my face, as though seeking to memorise it entirely without the aid of light. Quite what the purpose of such an exercise might be, I do not know.

"Holmes...Don't grow a moustache."

I smirk slightly, although Watson cannot see this. "Is it that unappealing?"

"Oddly so." He replies, avoiding the bristles temporarily adorning my upper lip.

I reply with a grin. "Persuade me."

He rests our foreheads together, then pulls away abruptly. I inwardly mourn the loss of contact, and am swiftly awakened to the weakness that seems to inhabit my mind at present. Not that I mind particularly at the moment. Purely an observation. My further attempts to kiss him are neatly avoided, with a single word. "Moustache."

Impatience has always been one of my shortcomings. At the ends of cases, or upon deciphering the answer to a perplexing puzzle, I am always eager to complete the analysis, often dragging Watson out of bed to do so. Not that I care much for curfews, as he well knows.

This shortcoming is what prompts me to throw caution, or in this case, moustache, to the winds. It was itchy in any case. I roll up the blind and flick the offending article out of the window, raising my hand to pull the blind back into place once again. But not before pulling Watson into a slightly brutal kiss. After all, I must have some victory.

As I pull away again, I notice his face has gone pale in the dim light, and hastily draw the blind over the window.

"Watson...?"

His voice is barely above a whisper. "Lestrade." He points feebly in the direction of the windowpane.

Several phrases come to mind, none of which seem appropriate in print. But I notice the signs that Watson's calm and steady disposition is beginning to waver. I move my hand to his shoulder, and smile reassuringly. "He likely didn't even see us."

I hear Watson sigh. "And if he did, there's nothing we can do about it now."

I feel a wave of irritation directed at Lestrade. Incompetent fool he might be, but now he was also ruining the mood without even needing to be present. In my current state of high spirits, I did not appreciate this even slightly.

But the last thing we require is Lestrade asking awkward questions, or worse, declaring what he saw in a room full of people, even if we were in disguise and partly hidden by curtain at the time.

I tap the ceiling of the cab and step out onto the pavement, waiting for Watson to follow me.

As the cab drives away with money jingling in the driver's hand, I gesture to the road running beside the river.

"I take it we're not going to Scotland Yard then Holmes?"

"We have far better things to do than waste hours with those incompetent imbeciles." I wave a hand vaguely, and begin to walk alongside him.

He's smirking. A great improvement on the pale Watson, trying to keep calm in the face of utter ruin. I can't help feeling guilty. In fact, the majority of my mind seems to be obsessed with such painful feelings. The guilt pours like hordes of imps, multiplying and raging, tearing through my other thoughts and leaving themselves in their place, and while doing so these villains nag and bite at my attention, drawing it back to my actions, which caused the entire circumstance. Slowly absorbing my mind into a ragged ball of jabbing spires of guilt, glinting in the dim light of reason.

"Perhaps." Watson removes my hat from his head and twirls it in his fingers. A way of getting rid of nerves, I suppose it to be.

Neither of us speaks again until we arrive on the corner of Baker Street. I feel calmer; walking always serves well to settle awkward emotions, and as Watson ceased his hat twirling about twenty minutes ago, I can only assume he is also calmer. Not relaxed, but at least calm.

"We shall have to make our excuses a bit late, old chap." Watson remarks, with a glimmer of his good humour.

This is true. The social event will doubtless have commenced somewhere in the region of half an hour and two score minutes ago. Not that I care particularly. After all, I was hardly enthused about attending the infernal event to begin with.

"I'm sure the police of London shall recover from our absence." I smile, reaching for my key to unlock the door to our humble abode. "And it's hardly our problem if, as usual, they fail to adapt." There is a sharp click as the door swings inward, and I step calmly over the threshold, but Watson pauses, loitering in the doorway.

"I almost think you're not taking this seriously, Holmes."

"I can assure you I am." My words, like his before them, carry an air of solemnity.

He steps in, shoes clicking quietly on the stone flooring. "Holmes, there is a real danger-" I shut the door, cutting the sentence short before jumping in with my own.

"At least my dear Watson, we have the knowledge that Scotland Yard rarely ever get their man to reassure us."

I move to climb the stairs, but Watson takes a hold of my elbow and pulls me to face him. "You're not taking this seriously."

"Watson, you once said that you trusted me, even when I forget my revolver." I notice a faint flush appear on his cheeks momentarily. "Have I given you cause to lose that trust?" I don't await an answer, mainly for fear that he will recall such an occasion. "I have no doubt we can devise a thousand cunning excuses that will fool Lestrade with ease."

There is a significant pause, as my words hang in the air, almost a challenge. One that my Boswell surely cannot refuse.

Watson shakes his head slowly, and I notice a grin prominent on his visage. "Throwing my own words back at me really isn't fair Holmes."

My face splits into a devious grin. "There are far more of your words I could reuse during our conversations." I pull him into a hug, unafraid of being seen as the lights nearby are dim and fading.

He wraps his arms around me in return, and I sigh, repeating his earlier words which sparked all the events contained in this narrative.

"I love you."

_**A/N: Yes, I think my Holmes in this chapter REALLY needs some tweaking, but please R&R. As I said above, which most of you have probably ignored or forgotten, next chapter shall be a rather large chapter, and it shall draw this little narrative to a close. Sorry to anyone who inexplicably likes this fic for any mutilating of this chapter. And cheers to all my reviewers! **_


	5. Close and Touching

**11,000 word badass mega-chapter! **

_**A/N: The finale is here! The basic idea behind this chapter is two simultaneous conversations and therefore I am going to use third person narration, solely for my own convenience. And as Holmes and Watson are in different places during the majority of this chapter, there shall not be all that much fluff. Sorry. To avoid complete disappointment, I'll put some fluffy stuff at the end, how about that? **_

"Doctor Watson." The door swung back into place, metal handle swivelling slightly before slotting back into place with the customary click. Clasping his dark bowler hat in his fingers, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard glanced around the room briefly before returning his gaze to Watson, whose gleaming blue eyes were just visible above the dim greying print of the newspaper.

The inspector's gaze was careful, lingering noticeably in the places where he expected Holmes to be; his chemistry table, the breakfast table, by the window... The lack of Holmes in any of the aforementioned places enabled him to discern that the consulting detective was out. So much the better. It was a delicate subject he wished to discuss.

Watson smiled in welcome. A fake welcome, but a greeting all the same. It wasn't that he particularly despised Lestrade; indeed, he had no such quarrel with the inspector. However, he was rather nervous about this confrontation, and still found himself barely able to believe that such bad luck had befallen himself and Holmes. Who could've guessed they would be discovered within the space of a day? After all the time Holmes spent mocking the police, it was almost shaming.

He tossed his newspaper onto the table, narrowly missing a trembling jar of jam in the process of gingerly edging its way towards the table edge, and rose to greet the inspector. "Inspector Lestrade." He paused, watching the other man's sweeping glances around the room before answering his unspoken question. "I must apologise, Holmes had some business to attend to this morning; I do not know for certain when he shall return."

Never had a truer word been spoken. When required, Holmes could easily vanish for hours, days, weeks, years... Watson jerked his thoughts back from memory lane. He had forgiven Sherlock, of course he had. But three years is a long time to forget, by any standards. No matter how valid the reason was, it was an agonisingly long period of time.

"No matter, no matter…" Lestrade seemed on edge. After all, this was not a situation he was accustomed to dealing with. Or indeed, being aware of. Ignorance was most decidedly bliss.

Well, in this instance. This instance alone, mind. His fingers locked around the rim of his hat in an impulsive response to tension. "It is you I really came here to see, Doctor."

"Well by all means, do have seat." Watson gestured at the couch, sitting opposite in the chair next to Holmes' own.

Speech lapsed and seconds passed, slowly stretching into minutes. Watson fought to control his nervous apprehension. After the events of the night before, it was now blatantly obvious that Lestrade had seen them in the cab. Whatever his motives for coming here were, Watson was not going to speed up the revelations.

One comforting thought that occurred to him was the small conciliation that at least Holmes wasn't here. If Lestrade was planning to arrest him he could do so, provided he did not lay a finger on Holmes. Watson was proud of his loyal nature and determination to remain true to his friends- especially Holmes. For obvious reasons. Not to mention it made his strategy far easier if it did come to court. It would be easy to present Holmes as the victim; his slight build would deceive that Holmes would ever agree. An impossible battle of wills would doubtless ensue yet again, as it did so oft, mostly regarding matters of drug abuse and other such health concerns.

Lestrade was quietly confident in the conclusions he had drawn, as he always was. And to his credit, some of them were correct. On occasion. But he was also, at this moment, rather confident of success. Had Holmes been seated across from him as well as his faithful sidekick, he might have been less sure of success. Holmes did seem to delight in kicking down his carefully constructed conclusions, jabbing holes into the mortar and pointing out minor flaws in the brickwork. As much as he admired the good doctor's skills as a medical man, he was not a deductive genius.

Lestrade liked to flatter himself that he had some degree of understanding in this 'art', as Holmes calls it, in his official capacity as one of the forerunning detectives of Scotland Yard. Therefore, he liked to believe that others thought the same, excepting Holmes, who was quite plainly at variance with this view. This, Lestrade assured himself, was due to Holmes' own incredible arrogance and disregard for the many conformations of society. But it was Watson he needed to remind of society rules at the present moment… He saw it as part of his duty to give him warning.

"I shall be honest with you, Doctor Watson, as I must admit I greatly respect your skills as a medical man, and in the hope that you shall be frank with me in return." Lestrade evaluated Watson's expression, which was neutral and almost inscrutable. That was immaterial. He already knew the answer to the questions he would put to the doctor, no facial expression was necessary. The proof was there, lingering between the two of them. And they were both well aware, while feigning ignorance, making stabs in the dark that they could then gradually lure to the point, as though by accident.

Watson knew that Lestrade had paused for an answer, but did not oblige him. Consensus would be equal to signing a blank cheque, something no sane man would ever do. He was not going to be the first to show his hand, so to speak. The inspector would have to drag it out of him before he would confine Holmes to such degrading prejudice. Realising that his quarry was not going to respond, Lestrade straightened his spine and continued.

"Last night, I happened to glimpse you in a cab near Scotland Yard." Beat. "I am not naive enough to ask explanation or excuse, I merely ask you, as your friend, to remember the rules of our society."

Lestrade was tremendously fond of rules. They gave him guidelines, restrictions and protocols to help him through patches of turbulence that his work inevitably threw up. From the mildest courtesy to the law itself, all built a structure within which all of England could co-exist in peace. When the structure began to crumble, be it by accident or by the express intent of criminals or innocents drawn into the dark web encircling the criminal classes, he feared for all of mankind. All on God's earth would be in danger of being pulled into such a world of confusion, disorder and ruthless irregularity that no force could save all those in need. The apocalypse, in short.

Watson fancied he could almost hear the world crashing down around his ears. Splintering, shattering, slipping away into a spiralling abyss, leaving him helplessly floating in a void of bemusement, lurching towards the steely cliff edge of panic...

No. He had to pull himself back. Back to reality. It wasn't the apocalypse, after all. Not _quite_ yet. And he knew that, at the risk of sounding clichéd, when that dangerous day did finally arrive, he would have his own angel, who no Devilry could possibly hope to destroy. Not even the most devious servant of Satan would stand a chance against Holmes. Had the situation been more relaxed, a smile of sheer affection would have formed on Watson's face. Perhaps it was better that it didn't.

**~Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~**

"Sherlock. Sit down."

As always, his brother's greeting was more of a command than an affectionate salutation. Not that Sherlock Holmes ever expected any different. It was simply the way Mycroft conducted himself. He was Jupiter, after all. Thus, he was accustomed to giving orders, disguised vaguely as suggestions, to the suggestible. For example, the Prime Minister. Although Sherlock was hardly suggestible, it had always been integral in Mycroft's persona; the commanding tone, authoritative uses of flattery and minor suggestibility to manipulate and the impressive or astounding mounds of data piled high in the quarry of his cranium.

Sometimes, it seemed that Mycroft could simply be a container, a giant gorge in which to bury information, an infinite bank of memories, converting all observations into fact and back again. No wonder he had done so well as an academic. Black or white, fact or fiction, true or lie. Mycroft Holmes defied the very existence of discrepancies, emotional involvement and grey areas of unsure jurisdiction.

The summons itself was perfectly ordinary. Sherlock been able to assist in a case for Mycroft a few weeks before, and was now delivering the results. One small envelope placed on the small, square table at his brother's right hand. He would read it later, Sherlock had no doubt. Had they been able or willing to express brotherly affection, perhaps he would have mentioned how he trusted Sherlock's verdict enough to simply pass it on without reading. It was unspoken. Mycroft did not say it, Sherlock did not hear it. But they both understood the gesture. And both knew no one outside of their spheres of isolation could ever truly comprehend such small trifles and their attached meanings.

To be seen, not heard. To think silently, not speak out rashly. To achieve, not boast. Restricted, with no hope of rebellion. And as such, unable to express to even those closest to them in mentality – each other – who had shared the same upbringing and even resembled each other in personality and intellect, anything that a normal man would recognise as affection. How cold they must seem, Sherlock had often thought. How blunt, unfeeling and emotionless they appear. Many times, he had contemplated these things, and each time arrived at a synonymous conclusion. Mycroft had not found his Watson. Sherlock had John.

And that was the difference.

"Well done Sherlock." Again, the words were not really praise. They were intended as such, Sherlock knew. As the elder brother, Mycroft felt it necessary to praise his younger sibling, but still the words contained no warmth. Just the blustery Mycroft that Holmes knew so well. It was at times like these that Sherlock was forcibly reminded of their father. For all his temper and restrictions, he had felt some parental form of affection for the boys. Many had worried they felt unloved or unappreciated. Sherlock did not recall ever feeling that. He had not been neglected. But he had also never been openly shown affection. The feeling was there. It was simply hidden.

Sherlock considered the possibility that, perhaps due to some unknown genetic trait, there was but one other soul for each Holmes to unburden their soul to. One person to trust implicitly with who they truly are. And again, Mycroft had not found his. Although even if he had, he would not have mentioned it to Sherlock. They were not that type of family. Silent, but not hostile. Impatient, but not rash. Close, but not touching.

Mycroft surveyed his brother with an expression that rested somewhere between intrigue and fatigue. Years in a club with men almost as unsociable as he himself had significantly reduced his ability to speak to many people for any substantial length of time. Sherlock, his younger brother, in whom he saw so much of himself and his mother, was easier than most. Because he understood. He recognised what unspoken trust meant.

He comprehended why Mycroft would never say it aloud, but would show his pride in his requests. They both knew. But today, Sherlock was positively shining. Always the more intense and active of the two - although Mycroft admitted it was hardly a contest - he seemed more vibrant and alive than most of Mycroft's acquaintance, but today even more so. The brotherly intuition that men openly scoff at but secretly trust tapped into the odd sort of elation reverberating from the younger Holmes. "You seem to be in good spirits, Sherlock."

"Do I, brother?" Sherlock's tone was almost disinterested. A rather transparent attempt to avoid scrutiny. His thoughts were slightly distracted at present. He was wondering whether he should have joined Watson for breakfast for more than the time it took to grab three slices of toast. That was probably what most people would have done. But the amusement in Watson's eyes told him he bore no grudge. He'd deliberately arrayed the remaining food around Watson's plate beforehand, but was that enough? Perhaps someone like him could tell, could understand, but would Watson read the unspoken gesture as the understated attempt at expressing affection that it was attempting to be?

Mycroft's gaze became one of intense concentration. Sherlock recognised that look and steeled himself against its piercing blade. Or rather, attempted to. There was only so much he could hide. His face perhaps, but the miniscule signs of all else about him would not vanish if he squeezed his eyes shut. This was Mycroft's evaluative stare, which allowed him to drink in facts and observations like a treasured bottle of claret, left to mature for decades.

The sweeping glance that neatly and precisely evaluated every piece of data available, fitting them together in the blink of an eye, reasoning at the speed a starving man devours bread. A dark and almost hungry steely stare, fixing him in place as Mycroft calmly broke apart every particle of his being, from the sole of his left shoe to his right cufflink, transmuting it all into numbers, digits, facts, passing them across his mental filter like a gold pannier in a stream, allowing the superfluous details to fall through the gaps while the remainder slot into a golden puzzle of observation, logic and reason.

Sherlock was not a man easily intimidated, but the bravest of men would have quailed before the penetrating stare and the fiery determination it portrayed. A kindred spirit Mycroft might be, but he was also a machine. A mechanism, devoid of ambition and sedentary by distinction. But a mechanism capable of noticing everything, and divulging secrets without lifting a finger. That entire concept was enough to cause the bravest to quail, quake and tremble in their boots.

_The weapon that prompts the most fear in others is always the mind. _

Normally, Mycroft would not openly pry into Sherlock's privacy in such a manner. As an older sibling, he felt a certain level of inherent protectiveness although he did respect his brother's ability to avoid death for extensive periods of time. It was simple to divine whether or not Sherlock needed assistance, and even easier to secure such an escort from those under his control. Most notably, intelligence. Sometimes Mycroft wondered if his position as a superior of Intelligence was an attempt at humour by the political overlords. They had little else to do to occupy their time.

His eyes returning to their usual state of mild apathy, Mycroft leant back in his chair with a sigh. "Come now Sherlock, surely something that can put you in such great spirits as this merits discussion?"

"I am not in any particular spirit at present brother." Sherlock folded one leg over the other, not breaking eye contact. They never truly grew out of the contests to see who would look away first, although as a child, Sherlock had often won. Much to his consternation however, Mycroft had a knack for breaking eye contact, while also attaining the airs of victory. To any who had not been watching, it would have seemed the elder Holmes had won.

Mycroft's chuckle was deep and yet also strangely light hearted. "Well, a game is it then Sherlock?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued with a faint smile on his face. "Very well, I shall humour you." The mild humorous tone was underlined with a faint challenge, visible in the eyes fixed on Sherlock's own.

With a far more violent laugh at this, the younger Holmes rested his arms on the sides of his chair and returned his gaze to his brother. "Deduce then, brother mine." His eyes glittered slightly in the glow of pale light spilling onto his left shoulder, like vapour from the infamous Reichenbach Falls. He veiled his secret anxiety that Mycroft might succeed in his objective- as all good actors do- and smirked in what appeared to be calm confidence.

"The game is afoot."

**~Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~ Shwatsonlock~**

Lestrade paused. His fingers relaxed slightly on the rim of his hat, for fear he was going to crumple or dent it. Not dignified. And bowlers were not cheap at present. So he waited, eyes fixed on Watson in his best imitation of a piercing, knowledgeable stare that could pierce through all human defences, break open hearts and spill their secrets onto the floor in one swift glance.

Watson forced his eyes from the floor, fighting the invisible force of dread dragging him down into the depths of despair, and met Lestrade's gaze. His first observation was that the inspector looked as though he was in pain. Likely a headache. Well, he could deal with it. Reminding him of society rules, indeed!

A brief gleam illuminated Watson's irises, as light darts across a blade. Visible for a split second, but in the short space of time it was present, it drew Lestrade's gaze. Not being overly acquainted with Watson and his moods, Lestrade did not fully recognise what emotion it denoted. For a moment it almost seemed some manner of agitation. Rare as it was for him to see any indignation or aggravation in Watson's features, Lestrade back-tracked soon after noticing this miniscule sign.

Not out of fear but out of respect for Doctor Watson, who he thought of as a useful ally in his war on crime – a war Lestrade was convinced he was leading, as Wellington at Waterloo, to a successful conclusion any day now – and he had no wish to alienate him. Not least because, knowing Holmes' slightly childish temperament, he would likely also be less than co-operative.

"I do not mean to pry, Doctor. As I said, I am only here as a friend."

Friend - perhaps. Regardless, Watson fumed silently. It was obvious that he meant to pry. If he didn't, he would not have come in the first place. Or presumed that Watson would simply listen to him like an obedient minion of the Yard. Holmes was the only one permitted to presume his responses to such things, solely because he...well, he was Sherlock Holmes. What other reason was required? But John Watson did not take kindly to being bid to rethink possibly the best decision of his existence over some trifling social concerns by an inane inspector.

Therefore, Watson raised an eyebrow, maintaining a visage as blank and expressionless as the pale pages of the pristine notebook presented to him on Christmas day the year before, still lying untainted by ink on the writing desk.

He was waiting for something special, something to befit such a pleasing deep red leather notebook, the leaves within a perfect thickness for his pen; effortlessly elegant as it was, Watson had resolved not to tarnish it's pure pages with his cramped and illegible handwriting until a time when the matter behind his writing was of significant importance to merit such vandalism.

"You must forgive my ignorance Inspector, but I fail to see what exactly you suspect I have done to merit this warning."

Pure bluff, naturally. Watson was determined to shake Lestrade's confidence in his conclusions, somehow persuade him away from the truth, luring him into the mists of confusion that covered the pitfalls of folly on the moor of bemusement. That was the only way, save a rather clichéd attempt at self-martyrdom that would make most romance novelists cringe with shame, to ensure Holmes remained out of Lestrade's grip.

Meanwhile, Lestrade's gaze also hardened. He had rather hoped Watson would simply accept his mistake, and he could resume his blissful ignorance of the inner workings of Watson's life. He'd have preferred to get the whole thing out in the relative openness of veiled conversation and vague insinuations, but the doctor was just not willing to play along. Other tactics were needed. Despite his personal qualms, Lestrade's tone now carried an air of warning which seemed to hang around their heads, like the sword of Damocles. _**(1)**_

"Doctor Watson, I shall not beat about the bush any further. Upon my journey to the event at Scotland Yard yesterday evening, I happened to spy you and your _companion_ in an intimate...situation. I was merely checking to ensure you were not allowing yourself to be led astray."

The words spun around inside Watson's skull in seemingly never-ending circles. Perhaps another tactic would have been preferable, but it was too late to contemplate such things now. Regret did more harm than good in these situations. He had tried. It was evident that Lestrade's patience was wearing. All Watson could hope for was that Holmes would be left to continue his work in peace.

Holmes.

Watson swallowed a lump that seemed to have spontaneously materialised in his throat. Quite why it felt the need to do so, he did not understand. Irksome reflex. Completely pointless. A sudden wave of sorrow swept over him, as though a wave had literally crashed down onto his head, leaving him soaked in the waters of faint hopes, shattered, liquidated and slapped into his mind by the forceful hand of regretful hindsight. The contents of these idle meanderings lapped at his mind, drawing his attention from Lestrade's piercing stare and worry of discovery and repercussions.

As his gaze drifted to the wall behind the inspector, Watson felt as though his mind was flying through the plaster, out into the sky and to the world that could have been, a small window into all that he would miss.

The texture of shirt fabric beneath his fingers, smooth and crisp. The material sliding easily beneath his palms, tracking outlines of bones and muscles beneath. Tracing a form that would not seem conspicuous in a museum of ancient marble statues, resplendent and gleaming in pale light. A warm presence at his back, seemingly bound together in a cocoon of warmth and duvet, the sense of elation and quiet peace that accompanied this image enough to form the last scene of many a romantic novel, or the daydreams of an idle schoolgirl. The simpler thoughts of return to Baker Street with a sense of someone present, waiting, caring. Affectionate greetings, snatched moments of peace amongst the restless throng of everyday life, the haven the rooms might provide as a refuge, out of sight and beyond reach of any others. The sillier ideas, of Christmas, presents exchanged, attempts made at decoration- mistletoe. Moments of amorous attentions snatched and treasured thereafter. Or longer moments, dimmed lights and privacy, hidden from the world's harsh gaze, an ecstatic island in the centre of a dreary sea. That violent laugh that Watson could recall so well, the taut violin strings coaxed into symphonies, harsh breathing in his ear; the lines of a smile, so faint that they were barely noticeable, around the corners of Holmes' pale mouth. The thrill present in the detective's eyes, the feverish, pent-up energy quaking in his limbs and the actions, movements spontaneous and bordering on the unpredictable, all so familiar to Watson. He had seen them many times over the years spent as Holmes' biographer. Even the black moods, regular insensitivities and distasteful twist at the corners of his mouth as he scorned Watson's latest work of "romantic fiction" would be sorely missed. Mutterings at inadvisable moments to turn Watson's pale face to scarlet, heated explorations that would now never be fulfilled. Never to completely, utterly, entirely transform the connection into physicality...

Realising that it was most distinctly and decidedly inadvisable to let his thoughts continue much farther in that direction, Watson wrenched his mind back to the present, and the cold eyes of Inspector Lestrade seated opposite.

"I can assure you Inspector that I have no intention of being led astray." Watson's voice was as ice, jagged and frozen, tone inadvertently betraying his discomfort. Lestrade detected this, but passed no comment. A faint smile crossed his face, and Watson's own spirits plummeted still further.

**~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~**

Mycroft's eyes fixed on his brother. Again, the game they had oft liked to play as children - observing people and deducing details of their lives, declared with a theatrical flourish and brushed aside as a matter of course – was in progress. Probably not a game which many children would devise. But they had never been among many children. Mycroft would have despised that. He was a solitary creature- other people had very little input into his existence. For one reason, many of them were inane and irksome. For another, he did not have the time to waste when facts demanded his attention.

Facts involved that lesser quantity of physical exertion. Facts did not talk back or make puerile comments. Facts did not demand some manner of emotional attachment, or the balancing of time spent with each. Therefore, they were far less troublesome than children.

A familiar competitive spark was clear in Sherlock's shining grey eyes, but Mycroft merely noted this briefly. It was both incredibly immaterial and entirely expected. He would question his brother and observe his responses. He knew Sherlock well enough to detect falsehood in his tone, he supposed. Then all that remained was to fit the details together, and let their pieces form the picture with which to furnish his mind. Sherlock Holmes waited in silence, already anticipating Mycroft's strategy. It was the one that required the minimum amount of physical exertion, after all. Not to mention it was his more habitual stance when it came to these games. Quiet, subtle questioning; not for the answers given, but for the answers displayed on one's visage.

The younger man kept his expression neutral and waited for the first question, resisting the urge to tap his fingers on the velvet arm of the chair. That might give his brother a clue to his secret nerves. If there was one thing neither brother would ever permit, it was another being given a hint towards hidden weaknesses. These hidden weaknesses, surrounded in subterfuge and silence, were swathed in these cobwebs of disguise for a reason.

"You have not had any case, save my request, for at least a week." It was a statement, but Sherlock inclined his head slightly regardless.

"No brother, I have not."

Mycroft leant back in his chair, elbows resting on the armrests to either side of him. "Then I deduce that it must be something more _personal_."

Almost imperceptibly, Sherlock's jaw tightened. He hastily relaxed it at once as he realised his reflexive action. He did not speak, and irritation grew within his mind as Mycroft's eyes glowed briefly with minor triumph.

Perhaps this had been a rather bad idea, but Sherlock Holmes was not one to concede. He would outwit his brother. Sherlock remained silent, aware that his miniscule reflexive action had already given his brother a minor clue or advantage to the real cause. Emotional involvement was a truly exasperating hindrance.

"I see." There was a pause as Mycroft surveyed his brother's attire again. Hair slightly disordered, and his mind informed him that there had not been winds of any great magnitude that morning. Implication: messed and briefly combed before journey, indicating a hurry of some sort. Likely a delay or unexpected development. And as to what had caused the slight disarray... A smirk grew on Mycroft's face. "Even the greatest of us fall, do they not, Sherlock?" A raised eyebrow accompanied this smirk, and Sherlock mirrored the action.

"Fall prey to what precisely, brother?" Sherlock kept his tone light and slightly intrigued.

"Love, Sherlock. Love." Mycroft's smile grew broader as his brother did not permit himself to reply, even by the slightest movement. It assured him that his conjectures were correct. "So who is the femme fatale?"

Made slightly uncomfortable by a faint, veiled twinkle in his brother's eye, Sherlock paused briefly before replying. "The thrill of the game is in the discovery, not the confession, is it not brother?" Again, that twinkle of some secret amusement, taunting Sherlock, who could not quite place what this beguilement was directed at. How irksome.

"Naturally." Mycroft did not permit himself a chuckle as his senses collected data. Most primarily, his nose. Exactly as he had suspected.

Clearing his throat deftly, Mycroft discerned a mild irritation in his brother's eyes. Doubtless it stemmed from his failure to identify what he found so entertaining. He would know soon enough. "Well then Sherlock, when did you meet her? I would wager you will have known her for some time before allowing her to so dishevel your appearance..."

Sherlock's mind delighted at Mycroft's assumption. Hah, he would enjoy leading his brother down this erroneous track. He was safe from discovery while Mycroft blundered in the thickets of folly. He could allow himself to relax, marginally. After all, it was still possible that Mycroft might fathom it, but if he maintained his composure, Sherlock was sure he would emerge victorious. "I would deem our acquaintance to have been of a decent length, yes."

Mycroft nodded, without his eyes seeming to move even slightly. "Years then?"

His brother nodded. "A fair few." Not counting the three years out of contact. And a fair few was definitely an understatement, which he averted by mentally adding the word decades to the end. A fair few _decades_ was perfectly correct. And a damn long time that could have been far more pleasurably employed- he broke his thoughts off in mid-stream and returned his mind to the game at hand.

Mycroft leant forward slightly in his chair, evaluative gaze slipping slightly. "Very well then Sherlock, describe her to me."

Steering clear of any physical traits that could give away the gender of "her", Sherlock instead chose to speak at length of a generous spirit and a selfless loyalty. His brother watched carefully as his brother's eyes seemed to dance briefly, as he had observed many others in such a state of emotional turmoil to do. Much to Mycroft's amusement, Sherlock had inadvertently replied with the same traits he emphasised in conjunction with his friend, Doctor Watson.

Unaware of his slip, Mycroft did not inform him by any outward expression. That would rather ruin his plan.

"Very well Sherlock. And where did you meet her?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he realised his brother had never fully informed him of the manner in which he became acquainted with Watson. Rather irksome. Mycroft did so enjoy cross-referencing...

"An introduction by a friend." Sherlock waved a hand airily. That much was true, but he could hardly saw they both sought apartments- that would give the game away in a second. He balked at lying outright to his brother- that was hardly sporting- and so again twisted the truth. "I was in a position to find her a situation." Vaguely true. A situation might imply a woman's employment, but it could also no doubt be used in conjunction with Watson. Perfect.

Mycroft's face became unreadable. "Interesting." A situation. Hm. Had Mycroft been a less self-assured person, he might have begun to question his conclusions, but instead he merely continued to observe. At the crease of Holmes' right shoulder, a miniscule fibre. The hat hanging on the stand by his office door was also a point of interest. "I trust I am permitted to inspect your headgear?" He rose before receiving an answer, striding over to the door slower than Sherlock would in his stead. After all, he could hardly be described as energetic.

Sherlock's mind objected, but he did not voice this minor doubt. Refusing would prompt further suspicion. Besides, the exercise would do Mycroft the world of good. "By all means."

Twirling it between his hands, Mycroft flipped it over, examined the rim. Faint impressions of fidgeting fingers, too large to be Sherlock's own. Hair, wrong colour for Sherlock. "I presume there is a reason for Doctor Watson's hair...?" Mycroft allowed himself the satisfaction of a smirk, while keeping his back to his brother.

"Of course." Sherlock's composure did not falter. Mycroft had been correct in his assumption. "We were attending a costume ball at Scotland Yard, and we had resolved to attend as one another."

"Innovative." Mycroft muttered, replacing the hat on the peg and returning to his seat.

**~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~**

"I purely intended that statement as friendly advice!" Lestrade blustered briefly.

Watson's churning irritation seethed more quietly. "I appreciate the intention Inspector. But forgive me if I find such advice rather superfluous." He returned his voice to the normal level, free of anger. It would not help his cause to start shouting at the Inspector.

"Nevertheless, I felt you should hear it." Lestrade surveyed Watson carefully. He had a feeling the Doctor's indignation was not in defence of solely himself.

Watson nodded. "I appreciate the intention." He repeated, numbly, resisting the impulse to soar back into the world of imagination, fantasy and inescapable regret. Anything was better than the waiting. It was intolerable now that his anger had diminished. But it was the Inspector's duty, was it not? And confession was hardly a preferable outcome. Most decidedly not preferable.

Lestrade rose and walked a few steps to the window, Watson watching his every move with the air of a defensive animal. "Doctor Watson, I feel I have not made it clear what I came to warn you of. I would not like you to attain the wrong impression."

Watson said nothing for a moment. It was true; he was not sure whether the Inspector was here as the friend he claimed to be or as a police officer attempting to stamp out the "deviancy" that he - and by extension, Holmes - would be branded as. As ambivalent as his feelings were about wanting a decisive answer, mostly for fear of the latter being proved true, Watson would not shrink from fear.

He rose to his feet, entire posture speaking of his years as an army doctor, a military man, a surgeon. A respectable individual.

Watson did not face Lestrade directly, as the Inspector turned from the dim windowpane. "Inspector Lestrade, I would appreciate your honesty in this matter."

The words seemed sincere enough to the Inspector's ears. He watched Watson's profile carefully, as a bookie surveys an outside chance.

Lestrade cleared his throat sharply, for no better reason than to give him time to devise a way to broach the subject with Watson, who waited patiently in silence.

After a few moments, Watson turned to meet the Inspector's gaze, who appeared to have been waiting for him to do so, as a school master might command a disobedient pupil to look him in the eye whilst delivering the customary lecture on not throwing inkwells at younger students, or not running in hallways lest they collide with an elderly master and break their legs. Not an image that Watson was particularly willing to apply to this situation.

For one thing, he was not a disobedient pupil. If following one's heart was such a crime, surely the system itself was in the wrong. To Watson, the heart and mind were what God had intended to be made in "his own image", not the physicality of the human body. For the human body, he had to admit, was subject to far too many flaws to be the work of any great deity.

The human heart, soul, mind and spirit on the other hand, were immaculate, immeasurable and indestructible.

And so he waited in complete silence. A silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity, echoing what Watson had previously imagined his future to be when devoid of Holmes. As it would have been had Reichenbach been what it first appeared. No energetic or eccentric detective hauling him along to case after case, driving him forcibly out of his lethargy.

Although Watson did not appreciate being driven out of his lethargy at the obscenely early hour of half past three. That was bordering on excessive.

"Doctor Watson..."

Watson's head rose from where it had drifted to the right, observing the breakfast table, and back to meet the Inspector's gaze, as he turned from the window with a smug expression on his face.

Confident and self-assured in his convictions, Lestrade advanced a step towards Watson and faced him directly, a slight smirk on his face.

Doctor John Watson could only wait in mild trepidation.

**~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~**

Sherlock Holmes waited for his brother to seat himself before speaking. "Mycroft, have you had sufficient data with which to form your conclusions now?" He could not help the smirk that curled the side of his mouth at the word.

Mycroft was so far down the wrong path due to his assumptions that there was little doubt in the younger Holmes' mind that his brother would have lost his battle. There was very little chance, if any, that Mycroft could deduce the object of his affections from those questions.

"Just one more question Sherlock, if you would oblige."

Mycroft rested his fingers together as his brother did the same, before lowering his own to his lap. Sherlock's remained where they were, elbows resting on the arms of his chair and eyes gleaming with expected victory. Sherlock thought he had him fully ensnared in his trap. The eternal trap of assumption.

How wrong he was. "I would merely like to know what your future intentions are."

The question caught Sherlock off-guard. He had scarcely thought about the future. "I am not wholly sure."

Mycroft's booming chuckle preceded his reply. "Come now Sherlock, surely you have considered something. Children? Retiring to family life in the country? A brief voyage to Paris?" His dark eyes twinkled with regalement. He had difficulty imagining Sherlock in any such pursuit. Most particularly the former.

As expected, Sherlock's eyes displayed brief horror, before noticing the joke in Mycroft's eyes. "Amusing brother. Very humorous."

"Well Sherlock, what is your answer?" Mycroft's amusement was now also visible in the smirk on his face, especially as the younger man mimicked the same expression. It was doubtless something they both received from their father, the Holmes smirk.

Sherlock Holmes sighed. "Well, no children of course. I fear the responsibility for continuing the family line must fall to you, brother Mycroft." Mycroft snorted at this, but made no other comment, waiting for his brother to continue. "Retirement would not suit me. And I hear Paris is frightfully cluttered these days by those who butcher the old masters and replace galleries with areas of disreputable repute."

At this comment, Mycroft openly scoffed. "Perhaps I should mention that to the foreign secretary, Sherlock."

Sherlock's smile seemed almost pointed. "Non-attributable if possible, brother."

But his thoughts were drifting down another route. Watson. Mycroft's statement had reminded him of something he once heard Watson say many years ago. Something about family. A rather interesting problem, Sherlock mused. A pang of fear struck him as he realised that it was not solely biologically impossible for him and Watson to have such a family, but in his case it was also effectively emotionally impossible. Sherlock Holmes lived a life of risk and unreliability. That was no situation for children, regardless of age or maturity.

It hurt a surprising amount when he considered the hurt that might cause Watson. There was nothing he could do, which instead of alleviating some of the guilty pain, only served to intensify it for some illogical and irrational reason.

Briskly returning to the present, Sherlock pushed such thoughts away until such a time as he could deal with them more effectively. Mycroft folded one leg over the other at the knee, and coughed twice.

"Well Sherlock, I believe I am ready to guess the cause of your momentary elation."

Sherlock Holmes leant back in the chair and locked his hands behind his cranium. "On the basis of the questions you have seen fit to ask me, brother, I fear any conclusions you have drawn can only be erroneous."

Mycroft's only response was a raised eyebrow.

**~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~**

"I believe I have it cracked, Doctor Watson!" Lestrade declared, with a theatrical flourish not dissimilar to what Holmes might have employed.

Far less effectively, of course. Holmes' flourishes seemed to become him rather well; Lestrade was not so fortunate in this respect.

Watson, slightly befuddled, said nothing. Quite why Lestrade felt the need to express some manner of epiphany while he was waiting to be accused of deviancy, Watson was not entirely sure.

He was not currently at liberty to consider this, being rather too busy controlling his movements and composure to avoid displaying the fear he felt, either through clumsy actions or flickering facial expressions, although he had often been told that a consequence of wearing his heart boldly on his sleeve was an inability to truly hide emotions.

Holmes could certainly seem to read his mind at times. But then, he could read anyone's mind. And Watson gained some small satisfaction from the knowledge that he had at least managed to surprise the detective twice on the previous day. That was a feat he could be proud of.

Deciding to humour the man who might soon be his captor under the law of England, Watson reluctantly asked the question he knew the Inspector to be waiting for.

"What have you cracked precisely Inspector?" His voice sounded rather reluctant, with a barely noticeable undertone of fear.

Striding another two paces forward, Lestrade's smile was clearly visible. Watson remained as flummoxed as ever. Barely five minutes ago, he had been disapproving and scolding of some perceived fault and now he was beaming at some joke that Watson did not understand, recall or find amusing.

Was Lestrade some sort of deprived sadist, who enjoyed capturing deviants and bringing them to what he was pleased to call justice? For Holmes' sake, Watson fervently hoped not. But if not, what was causing his odd expression?

Doctor Watson could only tread water in the sea of complete bewilderment as Lestrade tapped his nose twice and replaced his small black bowler on the top of his head, adjusting it briefly in the mirror upon the fireplace.

Noticing Watson's expression, Lestrade broke into hearty laughter. "No need to play the ignorant card with me, Doctor Watson! Have no fear- I shall not be the one to speak of it."

"Speak of what?" The doctor floundered, attempting to recall the conversation. When had he confessed to...anything? What was the twitching eye and nose-tapping in aid of? Was Lestrade losing his mind?

Still quietly chortling, Lestrade made his way to the door. "I shall say this Doctor; you would have been a great actor."

"...I-what-" John Watson failed to form sentences as his mind spun in confused circles. Lestrade was leaving, and acting as though part of some great and glorious conspiracy.

Lestrade's eyes fell on a distinctive brown leather glove on a side-table by the door, and his laughter increased tenfold. "Why, Doctor Watson, you rogue!"

He opened the door, pausing to hand Watson the glove before leaving. He would recognise that glove anywhere. Holmes' sister. Well, who'd have guessed? Obviously, this only confirmed his suspicions. He was Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, after all. And he always got his man.

Slipping into the hallway, mastering his chuckles, the Inspector paused as Watson's bewildered gaze met his from inside the room. "Not to worry Doctor Watson, I shan't tell a soul. I shall not be the one to inform Mister Holmes about yourself and his sister!"

And with those words, he pulled the door shut behind him and trudged down the stairs. He must confess - to himself and no one else - that he had, at first suspected some...undesirable event. However, he now saw he had merely leapt to the wrong conclusion. Any man would have done the same.

Who would have known that Holmes and his sister looked so alike?

Watching the Inspector hail a cab and drive away, Watson was still in a state of shock. Thoroughly flummoxed, in fact. As it rounded the corner and disappeared from view, his mind finally processed what had occurred. With one glance at the glove in his hands, Doctor John Watson subsided into hilarity.

Lestrade really was as inane as Holmes had always declared him to be.

Holmes' sister indeed...

**~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~**

Mycroft glanced at the clock and then back to his brother. "Watson shall be expecting you back shortly Sherlock." His eyes twinkled, and Sherlock almost flinched at the sudden implication. "I should not keep him waiting, if I were you."

Sherlock, for once in a very long time, was speechless. "What?"

"Sherlock, there is no need for such play-acting. It's not as though this is any manner of surprise." His voice could have been stating the weather; calm and factual. Uninvolved.

"Surprise? What are you alluding to, Mycroft?" Sherlock desperately tried to cling onto the aloof and confident platform that was deftly slipping from under him.

"I don't believe you ever told me the name of your beloved." Mycroft observed calmly as his brother regained composure.

"No. I did not."

His brother's smile was definite. Sherlock sighed, the utter conviction and victory adorning his brother's face completely unmistakable. "Very well brother, I believe you win this round."

"Perhaps." Mycroft remarked, calmly watching Sherlock.

Again, not saying it. Not speaking the name aloud. Sherlock released a breath he had not been aware he'd been holding. Infuriating reflexive actions. Acceptance. Amusement, even. The smug smirk on Mycroft's face was not solely due to victory.

They wouldn't say it. They would never tell each other they were accepted. They would never tell one another to change. But Sherlock knew that Mycroft had not just expected, but accepted. Long before even he himself had contemplated recognising who he was. A family, they might be. Not in the normal, traditional, idealised version of the word, but in the estranged, dysfunctional, restricted epitome.

Distant enough to be independent, but near enough to talk. Eccentric enough to estrange, but human enough to understand. Near enough to help, but not quite close enough to touch.

As the moment of odd closeness without speech drew to a natural close, Mycroft spoke. "I would recommend the opera."

Sherlock blinked, staring at his brother with an intrigued yet equally baffled expression. The sort normally seen when one hears a voice, yet is not convinced of its source. Mycroft merely smiled. "I have had occasion to take young ladies out in the past, Sherlock. The distant past perhaps-" His brother's smirk stopped him.

"A sensible suggestion." Gratitude, not expressed fully as such. And just as Mycroft sometimes lacked praise, so did Sherlock's tone lack gratitude. Not that it needed any injection of gratitude. They both knew it was there. They both knew how it was expressed.

Mycroft coughed to clear his throat, averting his eyes to his desk, and the small pile of correspondence from the civil service for his personal deliberation. "And I hear that Kim's Bookshop_**(2)**_ has recently received an endowment of several rare medical journals. Well worth a visit, I hear."

Sherlock nodded. "Indeed, I suppose it would be. I may investigate on my return."

His brother made a noise of assent. Sherlock's mind was already deliberating on routes, plans and schedules with which to get to the bookshop, the theatre, and of course, the favoured haunt of the Royale. Noticing the time in conjunction with these, he rose to go.

"I had best be on my way. As you say, I shall be keeping Watson waiting."

Mycroft nodded as Sherlock retrieved his hat and coat, darting out into the corridor. A faint smile crossed his lips, and he maintained his gaze on the door until it swung shut entirely behind his younger brother. He was happy for him, he supposed, returning his gaze to his favoured ink well and pen. The image they summoned made his lips curve even more into the closest that Mycroft Holmes ever got to a smile without laughter.

Sherlock certainly looked similar to their mother when in love.

Pulling on his coat as he emerged onto the street, hat in one hand and a smile on his face, Sherlock Holmes hauled himself into a waiting cab.

"Kim's bookshop." He commanded over the thin shower of rain assailing the streets of London.

Glancing back towards the Diogenes club and the antisocial crowd that lurked within, he thought he spotted the outline of a portly figure with a cane in the hallway he had just vacated.

Mycroft certainly looked similar to their father with that cane...

**~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~**

Mycroft had been perfectly correct, as always. The bookshop had indeed obtained some interesting journals. Several large, heavy and suspiciously sharp volumes. He would not mention these additional attributes to Watson; best to simply refer to them as interesting. However, it did make manoeuvring them up the stairs something of a challenge.

Determination won through in the end, as Holmes burst through the door to the rooms he shared with Watson, carrying the books in his arms. Watson looked up sharply, his face breaking into that welcoming smile that had so often adorned his features previously. And, Holmes hoped, would continue to do so at regular intervals.

"Holmes." The door swung shut, and Holmes hesitantly offered the three large volumes to Watson in a manner that did not appear dissimilar to a horse unseating a rider. This could be explained, or at least partially excused by his lack of experience in giving gifts of this nature. That was what the postal service was for.

"I thought they might be of some interest to you Watson." Holmes explained, as Watson accepted the books, setting them down on a side table not too near the fire. His face lit up, and Holmes took advantage of his momentary distraction to hang his coat and hat, both spattered with rain, on the stand.

Watson turned to thank him just in time to see Holmes fling himself onto the sofa with a sigh. "I cannot recommend the English weather for the spirit Watson."

Watson simply smiled. "Thank you Holmes."

The detective made some manner of dismissive gesture before placing his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes briefly, although they flickered open again at the sensation of Watson wiping a raindrop from his cheek.

"You must admit Holmes, the weather in this country is bracing." Sherlock did not need to glance at his friend's face for confirmation of the joke; the chuckle in his voice was clue enough. Friend...He paused in his thoughts. The word no longer seemed to do Watson justice, despite the length of time it had taken for Holmes to grow accustomed to the idea of friendship. He couldn't help finding it odd that he could be so at ease with this latest development in their relationship in a comparatively miniscule length of time.

In a brief second of scientific mindedness, he contemplated taking notes on the subject and the effects of love or increased affection on one's mindset.

"In that case Watson, I am most certainly braced for any and every eventuality." Watson thought he detected a mischievous hint in that remark, and turned his attention to Holmes' shoes, which the detective had not yet thought to remove. It often amazed Watson how little Holmes seemed to care about such things, but he had grown so accustomed to coercing him into fulfilling these basic tasks that anything else would seem far stranger.

"Holmes-"

With a theatrical sigh, Holmes rose, fully aware what Watson was about to mention. "Really Watson, I fail to see what my footwear has done to merit such incredible concern." He did not wait for an answer, tossing his shoes near enough to the fire to dry, and reassumed his previous lounging. It was far easier to just let Watson have his way on these minor matters, or at least seemed to be at present. Perhaps that was another note to jot down...

A small pause followed this as Watson returned to his chair, suddenly struck by the realisation that today was almost _exactly the same_ as every other day. No real change had taken place. No dramatic shifting of roles, no spontaneous...anything. He couldn't prevent a grin stealing onto his face. It was...amusing in a way- a change he had feared so much had, in fact, brought very little noticeable alteration whatsoever.

As he glanced across at Holmes, looking oddly pensive and distracted, his pale skin seemingly set alight by the cinnamon glow of the fire; charcoal hair a stark contrast, refusing to be set alight in the same manner. Somehow this prompted the realisation that it was different after all.

Previously, any partially-formulated plots had been kept under strict supervision in his mind. Now, he was far more at liberty to enact these cunning, devious or indeed, dev_iant _schemes. And with such an aim in mind, he watched Holmes carefully. He knew that the detective could probably sense his gaze, but he no longer had any fear of being caught. Besides, he had a suspicion that Holmes was not averse to such attentions.

Actually, Watson reflected, it was rather more than a suspicion.

Sherlock Holmes was steadily descending into boredom. The craving for cocaine was rushing through his veins again, and he shuffled up the couch slightly, curling his feet into the cushioned back and he rolled onto his side. As he heard the muffled thud of a cylindrical object hitting the floor, an idea sparked at the base of his skull. Hopefully it would save him from the black moods.

As Holmes still didn't open his eyes, Watson resolved that he was probably asleep. Sherlock did have the remarkable ability to fall asleep in record time. Like his energy to lethargy, his waking and sleeping followed the same erratic and abrupt patterns, impulsive and unpredictable. His feet made no noise on the carpet as he bent down to grasp the cane. Slim fingers gripped his wrist, and Watson couldn't suppress the slight shudder of surprise, even as he met the grey eyes of his captor.

The doctor's plan had been to turn away, place the cane by the door and return to his seat, but this was, as per usual, rather obliterated by Holmes' own plot. Watson really should have expected it by now. Not that it particularly bothered him. In fact, he was partially resolved to not expect it in future, for the mischievous grin that adorned Holmes' face.

Amused by the surprised expression on Watson's countenance, Holmes paused for a brief chuckle before continuing his plan, pulling his companion nearer, aware of their increasing proximity, and propping himself up on an elbow to draw Watson in for a kiss. Still in a state of mild surprise, Watson allowed Holmes to prise the cane from his hand and toss it...somewhere.

Neither of them either knew or particularly cared where exactly the cane had ended up. The final location was in fact approximately three inches from where it began, which Holmes would later claim was due to distraction, not abysmal aim on his part.

An odd effect of Holmes' lips upon his own seemed to be some sort of paralytic or tranquiliser, shutting down most of Watson's mind, or simply overpowering it completely. Either way, it was only when he broke apart for air-as irksome as the basic human requirement was- that he noticed he had already been manoeuvred partly onto the sofa.

"Holmes, we're not both going to-" He began, but got no further before an impatient snort interrupted him, and his mouth was claimed once again. As Watson's brain succumbed once more, Holmes took advantage of this momentary lapse in intelligible thought to haul Watson onto the cushions as well. Watson felt the amused smirk twitch onto Holmes' face and surfaced once again, returning to coherent thought processes.

It was similar to drowning, or swimming beneath the water for an extended period of time. Something of that nature. Once below, all superfluous thoughts were put on hold, ignored in favour of the beauty surrounding him, the sensations that sparked instead of thoughts. But the need to breathe oxygen demanded surfacing, and once the water was gone from his mind, these thoughts recovered from their paralysis, always with the same thought at the forefront.

_Whoever invented the human need to breathe clearly did not anticipate the wider implications of that decision._

It was after this that he realised the reason behind the smirk. Not that he hadn't expected to find himself on the sofa; Holmes' domineering nature would doubtless see to that, but Watson was surprised by the compromising position by which this was achieved. It was tremendously unusual for Holmes to willingly choose the less dominant position in anything. It was all enjoyably compromising, but compromising nonetheless.

A fact Sherlock was also regaining awareness of. Upon completing his mission, he had also suffered the affects of the overpowering mind paralytic that seemed to pass between them at every moment of contact. Although he saw it more as an overpowering stream of new information being processed, driving out other thoughts that would get in the way. Holmes had arrived at the conclusion that in-depth thought would merely complicate any further proceedings.

As the pause stretched longer, he was prevented from moving by a hand on his shoulder, as a brief flash of panic illuminated Watson's visage.

"The door...Is it locked?"

"What does it matter?" Holmes sighed, although he could see his lack of concern bothered John, whose nerves were doubtless still frayed from the previous discovery.

He had barely time to realise this before Watson was at the door, locking it and removing the key, drawing the blinds nearest to them. But he made no move to reassume his previous position. Instead he turned his back to Holmes for a moment, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. "Lestrade called while you were with Mycroft."

The detective made no effort to move. That would mean shattering the few moments of previous peace. He waited for Watson to continue, as he knew he would momentarily, although he admitted to himself that this was mostly because he was not entirely sure what he should say.

"He knew." Watson's voice was hollow, although at his next words it changed to a slightly mocking tone that he rarely used. Lestrade must have insulted him, Sherlock surmised. Or more likely said something imbecilic. He would expect no less from one of the inspectors of "the yard".

"He said he came to 'warn' me." The bitter, mocking tone was there. Sherlock scowled at the nerve of Lestrade. Warn Watson indeed... Lestrade had always taken his occupation to be some manner of divine providence, a sign that he was above the common man- not that Watson was in any way common. No one who knew him could say that.

The silence stretched on for a moment, as Watson allowed the implications of the words to set in. He didn't particularly like to, but he needed to impress the seriousness upon his companion. He could be so like a child at times, with no concern for the future and a conviction of his own immortality.

"He seemed sure of his convictions." A slight smile tugged at Watson's lips, although Holmes could not see this. "But he was wrong."

Watson turned back to meet Holmes' inquisitive gaze that seemed to be attempting to burn through the back of his cranium and reach his thoughts. "What did he-"

Now Watson found he could no longer hide the smirk of victorious amusement creeping onto his countenance. "The esteemed inspector Lestrade believes I am courting your elusive sister."

A bark of laughter mixed with relief echoed from Holmes' lips in recognition of Lestrade's erroneous conclusions and inability to discern facts. It was, for their purposes, a godsend. "Inspector Lestrade and his merry men..."

Watson chuckled, retracing his steps to where Holmes still lounged. "Well he does owe his conclusions, in some small part, to your opportune placement of a certain feminine article..."

"I presume you allude to the woman's glove?"

"Of course." Satisfied that Holmes had learnt his lesson, Watson allowed himself to be pulled back to his previous position atop his partner. "You shall have to explain that to me at a convenient moment, Holmes."

On a whim, Sherlock ran a finger across Watson's moustache, although this ceased almost immediately as the doctor's mouth made a beeline for his own. When they drew apart again, not to so great an extent as previously, Holmes sighed. "Very well, my dear Boswell. At a convenient moment."

His reward for this concession was in Watson's gleaming smile, which seemed to be formed almost entirely of pure elation, stemming from his beaming blue eyes, running down his face to catch in the subtle curve of his lips, forming a grin. "And have you any encounters to report, Holmes?"

Sherlock Holmes considered this for a moment. The business with Mycroft could wait. His smile became somewhat coy. "I have only one _pressing_ matter at present..."

Now sure that he was unable to stop smiling, even if he should wish to, Watson raised an eyebrow at the underlying implication he thought that he detected. "And what might that be, Sherlock?"

"I will require your assistance..." He let the sentence trail off, smile still fixed jauntily in place.

Watson was closer now, with scarcely an inch between their noses. "Anything, Sherlock." Two simple words, but Watson's shining blue eyes, seeming to earnestly project honesty into Holmes' mind, left no room for doubt.

In the instant before their lips met, Holmes' voice was barely above a whisper. He need not speak loudly; personal boundaries had been promptly disregarded. Not that they had been being respected for most of the previous conversation. Watson heard, and in the same way that his earlier words had projected honesty through his eyes, Sherlock's tone held only truth. Fact. Evidence, of a sort. And more importantly, not a single tremor of doubt.

"I hoped you would say that John."

**~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~Shwatsonlock~**

_Dear Reader, _

_It is here that our short narrative reaches its inescapable conclusion, not that an escape is or was in any way sought. Any manner of separation now would be exile. I can only hope that this has not been as fantastical as Holmes says my accounts of his other adventures have been, although he cannot find fault with what romanticism is contained within this as many of the words I have borrowed, as always, have been his. But I must humbly request that you see fit to keep these private journals out of the Strand or any other such publication; I sense that Inspector Lestrade would not find it particularly favourable to his character, nor is the public ready for such a tale as this._

_And thus, I bid you all farewell._

_Dr. J. Watson._

* * *

_Whoever may read this,_

_No doubt you know of me, and of my reputation as a great detective, and all the traits which Watson has seen fit to accentuate about my person. My dear Boswell has glorified me to an extreme. It is likely you, like so many others, have previously deemed me incapable of emotion or affection, as portrayed so effectively by my biographer. Perhaps I would have been, as Mycroft is, had I no Watson to keep me sane. Out of concern for privacy, I am sure my dear Watson has already placed his plea for secrecy upon these pages – wholly unnecessary when considering the incompetence of Lestrade – but perhaps the great unobservant public are not yet prepared._

_Observe. Deduce. Reason._

_S. Holmes._

* * *

_**A/N: Want to know how long this took to edit? Around three hours of my life, in just ONE EDIT. Review. Vote on my profile poll if you want a sequel/any more ever...VOTE!**_

_**Hah, and on another note: This chapter is EXACTLY 11,000 words long on Microsoft Word. **_

**-Footnotes-**

_**(1) King Dionysius hung this sword over his courtier/friend's head after offering him the chance to be King for the day. The courtier, Damocles, had earlier told the King how fortunate he was to have such an awesome lifestyle, and so Dionysius agreed to let him sample it to prove him wrong. Despite the excellent food, power, wealth et cetera, Damocles could not enjoy it for fear of the sword suspended by a thin thread directly above his head. And thus he came to understand the King's plight; while living in luxury, he could never feel safe with the threat of death seemingly hanging over his head. Greek myth-a variety of tales exist, but that's the gist of it. And no, he didn't actually say awesome. **_

_**Just in case anyone didn't get the ancient reference. If you did, what exactly are you reading this for?**_

_**(2) Kim's Bookshop is in Arundel, West Sussex, England. I am mercilessly using the name because they are clearly awesome enough to stock perfect books for Watson. If you're in West Sussex, get the train down to Arundel and have a look. Go! If you love books, you will love it. End of discussion.**_

_**A/N: Review, if you would be so kind. After all, "The weapon that prompts the most fear in others is always the mind of a Shwatsonlock fanatic." Mine. :P**_


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